


Masquerade

by ConsultingOtter (FourCornersHolmes)



Series: The Captain and the Mastermind [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Assassin John Watson, Assassin Mary Morstan, Awesome Mary Morstan, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF Jim Moriarty, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Mary Morstan, Big Brother Mycroft, Canon Divergence - The Great Game, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Friendship, Female John Watson, Greg Lestrade has a dirty secret, Greg is Sweet, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jim Being an Idiot, Jim Is Good, Jim is a Little Shit, John Has Issues, John Watson Has Feelings, John Watson's a Sniper, John has some backstory, Johnstrade friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Nice Mary Morstan, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Canon Compliant, Oblivious Sherlock, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Female/Female Relationships, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Protective Greg, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Universe Alteration, Warstan Friendship, When Sherlock stops being a first-rate moron, Which happens rather quickly, actually, but so does everyone else, eventually, nobody important dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 03:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13378875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/ConsultingOtter
Summary: Appearances can be very deceiving, what you see may not be what truly lies beneath the mask. What if things aren't quite what they seem? What if the residents of Baker Street are hiding secrets for their own sakes? Never underestimate the unassuming ones.





	1. Away From Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Empty Rooms of 221B Baker Street](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105482) by [FourCornersHolmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes). 
  * Inspired by [Unholy Yarder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757805) by [Azmodel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azmodel/pseuds/Azmodel). 



> If this story looks familiar, it should. This starts in exactly the same way The Empty Rooms of 221B Baker Street begins, but deviates very quickly from that story-line. Enjoy! This was posted for a friend over on the FB group who was interested! Katie Tyler, dearie, this is for you!  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leaves Baker Street and hits the streets by her lonesome. After some wandering, she bunks down in a safe-house and plans out whatever future she has. Things get...interesting.

* * *

There was a strange and unsettling finality to the sound of the door of 221B Baker Street slamming shut. It wasn’t the first time the residents had argued, not by a long shot. And it wasn’t the first time one had stormed out in a fit of potentially misplaced rage, but it _was_ the first time the words “I don’t _need_ you!” had left the mouth of London’s only Consulting Detective and Chief Arsehole. And it was certainly the first time his assistant had left the house without her coat, keys, or mobile phone. It would only be later that either of them realized this, or cared to do anything about it. Frustrated and feeling very unwelcome in the flat, John Watson had simply…left. As she walked down Baker Street, going in no particular direction with no particular destination in mind, she refused to look back at the windows. She knew damn well Sherlock Holmes was standing there, watching her walk away and waiting for her to turn back. Every time they fought over something, if it was an experiment she’d come upon in a place it didn’t necessarily need to be, or found something in the fridge beyond its use, or something he had taken of hers without asking, or…well, any number of things. She _always_ looked over her shoulder as she walked away. It was kind of her subconscious way of letting him know she was coming back later. But she didn’t look back this time, and she wasn’t in a hurry to go back to _that_ , anyway. At least they hadn’t disturbed Mrs Hudson, who was out of town visiting her sister. Mrs Turner would probably have plenty to say about it when Mrs Hudson got _back_ , but she didn’t give a damn. With her hands in her pockets and her head down, John stormed the streets of London alone.

She wandered for hours, it seemed, blessing the weather for being kind to her for once. It was a nice day, not too cold and not too warm, no clouds or rain in sight, but there were _people_. Too many bloody people. After being jostled one time too many, John growled and took her hands out of her pockets, lifted her head, and squared her shoulders. She must have looked a bit of a fright, people were rather quick to get out of her way as she kept moving.

It was nearly noon when she finally took a minute to get her bearings. She stopped on a street corner and looked around. She knew every street in the bloody city no thanks to her reckless, selfish flat-mate, so…where the hell was she? Not anywhere near Baker Street, good riddance. John looked around, caught sight of the cameras on the adjacent building, and growled. Mycroft. Fucking nosy little shit. He’d probably been tracking her across the city for hours and giving his dear little brother updates. Baring her teeth, she flipped off the camera and ducked around the corner. She only stopped walking when she reached a dead end. No big deal. Looking around, she spotted a nearby fire-escape and smirked. He may be the smartest man in the city, and definitely the smartest sociopath (though John was starting to think he was more of a psychopath than she’d given him credit for), but she had to give Sherlock credit for teaching her clever ways of getting around the city. Climbing the fire-escape, she took to the rooftops and just…ran.

Finally, she was forced to ground again and stepped out onto the pavement brushing off her jumper. It was colder now than when she had left the house, and she had stupidly left her coat back at Baker Street. She didn’t have her phone or her keys, either. Not that she cared. She hated her phone, it was a hand-me-down from her brother anyway, and she didn’t care about the keys, but she did wish for her coat. What she _did_ have, because God forbid she ever leave the house without it, was her SIG L105A1. She had learned not to leave that unattended with Sherlock. Looking about to get her bearings, she recognised the restaurant behind her. Granger & Co. Notting Hill. Oh, she was close to the St. Luke’s Road safe-house! Perfect! Heaving a sigh of relief, she set off north for St. Luke’s Road. She’d never told Sherlock, but she had other residences in London. And she might rag on him about rent and finances, but she honestly had more money than she knew what to do with thanks to some discrete contract work during her Army days that had paid quite a pretty penny. Let Sherlock think he knew everything about her, let him think he had her figured. Better that way, she wasn’t sure he would appreciate knowing just how much she’d kept from him.

When she reached 21 St. Luke’s Road eight minutes later, she located the key she had stashed above the door and let herself in. Closing the door behind her, she locked it and looked around. The house looked clean, and it was warm. Someone had been here recently. Not today, but definitely in the past week. Moving through the house, she found traces of her visitor and chuckled. Mary Morstan. Of course it was Mary. Probably slumming in the guest-room on her way to another job. Lucky bitch. John sighed and went upstairs to the master suite, where she took a hot shower and found clean clothes. Once she was warm and clean, she went back downstairs and got something to eat before she located the mobile she kept at the house. Powering it up, she kept it charged, she went online on the desktop in the study and downloaded everything from the cloud to the phone. Contacts, pictures, the like. No sooner had her phone been reset, than it rang. It wasn’t Sherlock, or Greg Lestrade, or Mycroft, or anyone she usually got a call from. She groaned and answered the call.

“What now, Mo?”

_“Oh, good! I thought I saw you go in there!”_

“Jesus Christ, you little spy!” She chuckled, “Whose cameras are on me?”

_“Half the city’s, but don’t worry about Big Brother Holmes, he saw you most of the morning, but lost track of you a while ago.”_

“Ta, my love.” She sighed, “So, what can I do for you, ma’am?”

_“I was going to ask if you were busy tonight, but I think we both know the answer to that.”_

“No plans, but I was contemplating making friends with the bottle of Connemara I found in the top cabinet in the kitchen.” She was in the kitchen at the moment, sitting on the centre island work-top, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

_“Well, would you like to join me tonight?”_

“For what?”

_“Oh, I have to go to some party for the bosses, hospital bosses, and I had a plus-one, but she got the flu and had to drop.”_ And didn’t Mary sound disappointed about that. John snickered and licked a smear of peanut-butter off her finger.

“Don’t tell me you invited Gloria Marcham?”

_“I had to!”_

“Oh, sweetie.” John smiled, “Well, I don’t know what’s involved in this little shindig, but I’ll bite. Keep me occupied and keep me out of Baker Street, at any rate.”

_“Yeah, what happened this morning? We caught you leaving at like 4 am or something like that.”_

“Combination of I left and I was kicked out. Not going back anytime soon.”

_“Moron.”_

“Yeah, tell me about it!” She sighed, “Well, where are you?”

_“I’ll pick you up in five and we’ll go shopping, how’s that sound?”_

“Okay?”

_“It’s a costume party of sorts, you need a proper dress.”_

“Ew.”

_“I promise it will be worth it!”_ Mary crooned, _“You might even meet Mr Right!”_

“Yeah, like that’ll ever happen! Have you seen my track-record lately? Not good odds!” She rolled her eyes, “Fine, let yourself in when you get here.”

_“Roger that, dearie!”_ Blowing a kiss to the phone, Mary Morstan hung up on her. John would have occupied herself cleaning the place, but Mary had left it pretty spotless on her last visit, so she did the wash up and changed into clothes more suitable for going out of the house than track-pants and a hoodie.

Five minutes later, she let herself out of the house dressed in comfortable denims and a red jumper, wallet and phone in their respective pockets and a coat for the weather. Locking up with the key, she trotted down the steps and met Mary by the waiting taxi. She hugged the other woman tightly.

“Oh, god. Hi, love.”

“Wow. Hi, you.” Mary looked at her, “You okay, then?”

“Distract me, please.”

“No problem.”  Mary pushed her into the car and gave the driver orders to head for Stratford, specifically Westfield Stratford City mall. It was a quiet, pleasant forty-minute drive from her flat to the mall, and John didn’t bother to ask what exact occasion Mary was kidnapping her for, not particularly caring either way.

* * *

 


	2. Masquerade Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of 2, seen from John's POV. A night on the town with an old friend turns into so much more. She meets and is successfully wooed by a mysterious masked Casanova. Who is Richard Brook? And why isn't she afraid of him? Should she be afraid of him?

* * *

After settling the matter of a dress, which took roughly three hours and three stores, John ended up with a properly stylish gown with far, far more tulle, black and gold to match the colour-theme of the dress, than she thought was practical, but it was a gorgeous dress and she loved it. There were sequins and beads on the bodice, the sleeves were full-length, the neckline was modest and high, there was beautiful black floral lace in the bodice and rhinestones on the collar, and the whole matter was very proper masquerade attire. That was, after all, what they were doing tonight. After buying dresses, and John used her secret funds for that, ta, she and Mary took care of the practical matter of shoes, settling on shoes that suited their tastes. John wore black peep-toe sandals with a two-inch heel that was perfect to give her a bit of extra height but wasn’t too much. Mary, on the other hand, wore an understated, elegant off-the-shoulder black velvet gown fitted at the waist, spotlighting her figure and a flattering column silhouette, and low-heeled sandals (sitting pretty at 2-3/4 inches) with a looping strap covered in crystals.

With outfits handled, they set off to do something about hair and makeup, not trusting themselves to do justice for tonight. They kept the makeup subtle and understated, they would be wearing masks, but John sprang for red lipstick and matching nail-lacquer. Subtle smoky eye-makeup would accentuate her eyes with or without her mask. Mary went for a bit more colour, opting for blue eye-shadow and a darker shade of red lipstick than John had chosen. She painted her nails black. By that time it was nearly six, so they went back to Mary’s and got ready. This party included dinner and all the alcohol to be had if you cared for it. John planned to get properly cross-eyed, but she didn’t plan on being stupid about it. Wrapping up in a black velvet cloak with a deep hood and lined with matching satin, might as well suit the occasion, she followed Mary out to the waiting car. It was quiet as they drove from Notting Hill to Central Hall Westminster, where the event was being held. John felt giddy. Excited, relaxed, even. This was really something to look forward to.

 

When the car stopped, the door was opened for them by the driver, who offered her a hand. She smiled at him in thanks and tugged on the hood her cloak, looking around. There was a sizable crowd on the pavement outside, they were not the only people arriving. And the costumes and outfits were extravagant. She did not feel underdressed, by any means. No one seemed to recognize her, for once, and she was fine with that. Word would be out before midnight that she was out on the town without Sherlock Holmes, and she would give anyone who questioned an unpleasant piece of her mind about it if they bothered to ask. She wasn’t his fucking secretary, she wasn’t a pet. Shaking her head, and swearing not to think of Sherlock again until she had to, John followed Mary into the event. At the pre-event space, which was full of people, she handed over her cloak and debated handing over her clutch. Mary shook her head and she held onto it. Taking a claim-tag from the valet, she looked around.

“Well, I don’t see anyone I know right off the bat, so that’s good. What are the chances I’ll run into either of the Holmeses?”

“Not good. They weren’t on the list for this. Different crowd.” Mary took her by the arm and guided her through the crowds, “Believe me, I checked before I called you. And I looked for aliases.”

“Thank you.” She sighed, “So…masks?”

“This way. There should be plenty to choose from, pick whatever takes your fancy.” Mary kissed her on the cheek and led her to a table covered in masks of all shapes, sizes, and colours. John picked up and discarded a number of masks, nothing seemed to suit her tastes tonight.

“Why don’t you try this one on?” A familiar voice at her shoulder had her jumping and she spun around, almost forgetting how to breathe. 

“Oh my god! Seb?” The tall, masked man behind her was her old commander if she wasn’t mistaken. Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers, 5th Regiment. She would recognize those blue eyes anywhere.

“Hello, John, my love.” He grinned and held up the mask in question, “Fancy running into you here.”

“Seb! Oh my god, hi!” She hugged him, “Christ, how are you? Where are you? What are you doing?”

“Same work I was doing back when you were part of my life, my dear little sniper. Just not with the Army anymore. I’m in London, of course, and I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Does your flat-mate know what he’s taking for granted?”

“Well, I can’t exactly walk around announcing to all and sundry that I’m as much a genius as Sherlock Holmes, can I? That got me beat black-and-blue as a kid and people don’t like it when you’re smarter than they are.” She made a face. Moran smirked behind his mask, a beautiful red mask decorated with rays of clear and black rhinestones, turning her by the shoulder with one hand and telling her to stand still. The mask in question was a gorgeous black and gold cat-mask that covered half the face with clear rhinestones on the forehead and nose, and gold sequins and piping trim. It was a mask John had considered before discarding, but secretly she was thrilled to wear it. Moran settled the mask in place, it was held on by a headband, which was perfect for her. Mary, who wore a black mask adorned with bejewelled natural peacock feathers, a black braid trim and coloured jewel accents, squealed and clapped her hands as she saw John’s mask.

“Oh, you look gorgeous!” She gushed, “Oh, you won’t be off your feet a minute, love!”

“Good thing I love dancing.” She sighed as Moran and Mary ushered her into the event-space, The Library. Moran peeled off, promising to find her later for a dance, and she concerned herself with the practical matter of getting something to drink before locating her seat.

-&-

John found herself thoroughly enjoying her night. The food was fantastic, her table-mates were great company, and if anyone recognised her, they didn’t ask about Sherlock or bring him up. All the while, she was aware of being watched. By Moran, of course, but there was someone else. A gentleman who didn’t seem to be part of any particular group and yet knew everyone at the party. He wore a carefully-tailored all-black tuxedo, the only colour was the red tie. Tie, not bow-tie. Interesting. That and the gold accents of his mask, which was a very simple thing of black adorned around the edges with gold trim. Shimmering swirls hand-painted at the corners with subtle rhinestone accents added a bit of tasteful flair. Whoever he was, he was very much a need-to-know guest. John knew it was only a matter of time before he caught up with her, he had been watching her all evening without looking like it, but she wasn’t the idiot people thought her to be, and she was barely as unobservant as Sherlock thought she was. She’d be dead and long in her grave by now if that was true. She knew he’d been watching her, probably since before she set foot in The Library with Moran and Mary. John sighed, distracting herself with plenty of alcohol and the good company of her friends.

The handsome stranger finally caught up with her while she was dancing with Moran. She knew he was there before he spoke, his accent unusual but soft, his words carefully-spoken. Where was he from? Ireland? Perhaps. UK, for certain, the precise where escaped John's gift of deduction just at the moment.

“Excuse me, Colonel. May I steal your lovely date for a moment?” Well, that was one way to ask. 

“Of course you, may, sir.” Moran’s expression did not change, but she swore a smirk tipped his mouth a bit. “The lady is in your care, be good to her.”

“Oh?”

“Cross her wrong and we may not find you for many days. Your safety and soundness would be questionable.”

“Ah, she’s one of yours, then?”

“One of my very best. Do be careful with her.”

“Of course I will be.” She swore the man smiled as he turned to John and bowed, extending one hand in invitation, “Ma’am?”

“What did you get me into, Seb?” John looked at Moran and raised an eyebrow.

“Absolutely nothing you can’t get yourself out of.” He promised, handing her off with a kiss to her hand. “Just remember, the rules that apply to him apply to you as well, my dear.”

“I can behave myself!” She would have stomped her foot, but that was childish. The black-clad stranger just chuckled and swept her off as the music changed pace, slowing down just a bit. Whoever he was, he knew how to dance.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.” She raised an eyebrow, “You’ve been watching me all evening and never once approached.”

“It was…impolitic.” He shrugged as if it was of no consequence that he had either been stalking John all evening or that he had been caught doing so _by_ her. “Observant thing, aren’t you?”

“I’d be dead if I wasn’t. How do you know Seb?”

“Oh, he works for me.”

“Figured.” She snorted, “Whoever you are, everyone knows you and they respect you.” She studied him, “Some of them fear you. You’re not one of Mycroft Holmes’s people.”

“No, thank Christ.”

“Oh, you don’t like him either?”

“Not much. He’s such fun to play with, though. And that silly little brother of his.”

“Oh, Sherlock! God, what an idiot!” She groaned, her head landing on his shoulder. She didn’t mean to, but thinking about Sherlock was not something she wanted to do.

“Did something happen?”

“What didn’t?” She shook her head, “He won’t look at me twice, he keeps me out of cases, he doesn’t trust me.”

“Why not?”

“That’s anyone’s guess.” She sighed, “I don’t…”

“I understand. I’m sorry, it’s obviously not a subject you want to talk about.” He guided her through a turn and she sighed.

“No, it just hard to understand how he could think so poorly of me.”

“You deserve better.” Her dance-partner and might-be-stalker pulled her close and leaned in until his lips were against her ear, “Such a gifted girl, you can do so much better.”

“I’d move out of Baker Street if I thought I could get away with it!” She huffed.

“Why don’t you?”

“Have you seen rent around here? I can hardly afford to live on my own. I’d be forced to leave London.”

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”

“I suppose not.”

“Let me buy you a drink.” He took one step back as the song came to an end and John sighed. Another drink sounded like a very good idea. Returning to a rather empty table, she sat down while her mysterious dance-partner headed for the bar. He brought back a glass of wine and sat next to her. They talked back and forth about all manner of subjects, danced until their feet hurt, and laughed together. She caught Mary and Moran watching them, watchful and cautious, but she didn’t think those two had a damn thing to be concerned about.

After a while, John finally got around to asking a question that had been on her mind since they’d met.

“So, what exactly do you do, then?”

“A bit of everything. Mostly in finance and private security, a bit of IT work.”

“Oh, a proper Renaissance Man.” She leaned her head back, barely missing the odd expression that flitted across his face. There was something about him that was slightly off, something that didn’t gel, but John was just drunk enough it didn’t really matter. He was nice to her. He was kind, he was funny, sweet in a sort of awkward way. There was an edge to him, a bit of danger, the promise of a thrill, but he seemed a little…distant. Stand-offish, almost. Like getting close to people, or letting them get close, was not something he liked doing without a good cause.

Finishing her wine, John decided to visit the ladies’ and excused herself. Her handsome stranger just smiled and kissed her hand, sending her on her way. If he was still there when she got back, that would be great. If not, then she’d gotten a few decent hours of good company. After finishing her business in the loo, John returned to the party. She did a full circuit of the party, didn’t see her brown-eyed Casanova, and debated finding Mary and going home. She was distracted from that when someone grabbed her hand and pulled her into a quiet alcove. John recognised the hand on her wrist and couldn’t help the soft noise she made when her back hit the wall behind her, held in place by the solid presence of the man who had taken most of her time without shame or apology. She still didn’t know who he really was, what he did when he wasn’t charming party-goers at masquerade balls.

“You weren’t going to leave on me, were you? Run away?” He breathed against her skin, putting teeth to flesh. She whined. Nope, not about to leave. No sir. I mean, let’s be honest here, all she had was an empty flat in Saint Luke’s Road and a hostile one in Baker Street.

“No.” Damn, she sounded so weak. He chuckled and one hand slid along her shoulder, up the side of her neck, around, and into her hair, the slightest tug dropping her head back and giving him blatant access to her throat and jaw.

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, my sweet pet. My dear, dear sweet Doctor Watson.” He murmured, laying a trail of soft kisses from her ear to the pulse in her neck, “You fascinate me.”

“Plain, silly John Watson. You could have anyone.”

“But I don’t want them, my dear little kitty.” His voice dropped an octave and he kissed just below the edge of her mask, “And you are far from silly.” John would be damned to an eternity in Hell if she actually whined. It occurred to her that anyone could come upon them, but she couldn’t be arsed to care. Whoever her handsome stranger was, he was…amazing. He put Sherlock to absolute shame. John knew she should be afraid of him, but she didn’t know why. He must have sensed this, he softened his assault and stroked the line of her jaw with his thumb.

“You gorgeous little creature, if I didn’t think for a minute I’d have Moran after me and that idiot Holmes wanting my head, I’d keep you to myself.” He whispered, “Can I kiss you, my dear?”

“Please!” She gasped, “I thought you’d never ask!” Laughing, teasing, careful flirting touches had been the order of the evening, but they hadn’t kissed, not honestly. Kisses on the cheek and hand were regular occurrences, but not…not this. Jesus, he could kiss! And John, before Sherlock put a stop to things, had been rather good at kissing and wooing. Her masked Casanova was giving her a real run for her money. There was something special he did, some combination of tongue and suction, that had her begging, in her head, for more. He finally did stop, holding her hard against him to keep her up on her feet.

“Well, aren’t you just a responsive little thing? It’s like you want to be kissed.”

“That wasn’t a kiss! That was something else! I thought I was good at it, but…” She tried to focus on him, “You owe me a name, sir!”

“Do I?”

“Please? Something to call you? You know my name, give me yours?” She got loose, shaky limbs to cooperate and touched what she could. His jacket, that gorgeous red tie with its neat little tie-pin fashioned in the shape of a fox mid-sprint, her fingertips scraped along a bit of stubble. Sherlock generally stayed clean-shaven, and even though three-day stubble was her true weakness, it didn’t appeal to her with her cocky flat-mate.

“Richard.”

“Any last name to go with that?”

“Er, Brook. Richard Brook.”

“Lovely name, that is. Proper name.” She got one hand around his neck and pushed until he came down for another kiss. He fought her a bit but relented in time. John smirked at the slightly-bewildered expression on his face before she kissed him again.

“Well, well, Miss Kitty takes what she wants, eh?” His chuckle had a slightly-sinister tone to it and she shivered. John just raised an eyebrow behind her mask and grinned, baring her teeth.

“You sound so surprised, Mr Brook!”

“Oh, you’re a clever little thing. Maybe I will keep you, make you a happy kept pet.”

“Respect me first or it won’t be Sebastian Moran coming for your head.” She didn’t know where this change of behaviour had come from, but she didn’t think he minded too much.

“And I’ll take your head last. Well,” She narrowed her eyes and one hand went south of the waistband, “the head on your shoulders will be the last to go, not the first.” If he didn’t gasp, she was a deaf idiot. She’d be damned if his trousers didn’t get tighter. Ah, she still had that touch. And all she’d done was tug on his placket. Sensitive bastard, her devious Richard.

“This conversation is not to be heard by our unsuspecting fellow revellers, my dear Miss Kitty.” He whispered, hoarse with some unspoken need.

“No, I suppose it’s not. You’ve a hotel nearby here?”

“I can arrange that.”

“Please do. You’re the most fun I have had in absolutely weeks, you know.”

“Holmes is a fucking moron for treating you like he has. Downright damn shame, that is.”

“Then, distract me.” She nipped at his scruffy jaw and left a mark just below his collar that would heal in an hour. He chuckled and his arm around her tightened.

“Follow me, my dear.” He kissed behind her ear, tugging on her hand to lead her away. And she followed him, almost blindly. Trusting strangers was usually a very bad idea, but John was bored. And if Sherlock could be destructive when he was bored, John got…violent? Sometimes. She collected her cloak from the coat-room staff and followed Richard out onto the streets of London. She saw Moran and Mary, waited while Richard went and had words with them. Moran gave Richard a very clear “you hurt her at all and your guts are my bootlaces and your head will be a hood-ornament.” warning, which was not brushed aside. She was curious to know how Moran and Richard knew each other, it was obvious they were associates of some manner. A mystery for another day.

Wrapping up against the weather, mid-March was a rather nasty time of year weather-wise, John followed Richard’s lead. They walked four minutes almost dead due west from the venue to the fashionable Conrad London St James hotel. No one on the streets bothered them, and when they got to the hotel, Richard handed the chirpy, cheerful clerk a card and asked for the best room they had available. She got the impression, again, that Richard was one of London’s top need-to-know, need-to-please citizens, the clerk’s eyes widened and she went a bit pale.

“Oh, of course, sir, right away!” She looked through the system and came up with a suite that happened to be open, would that do?

“That will do fine. Thank you, Patricia.” He was careful to use the girl’s name and give her a passably friendly smile. John was impressed.

“Would you like a wake-up call, sir?”

“No, thank you. Our schedules are observed rather closely, it’s very unlikely we will need it.” He turned to John with a quick smile. She shrugged. That was true enough. Even after a night like this, she tended to wake early. John returned the smile as he took the single room-key. It was quiet as they took the lift from the lobby to the proper floor, but it wasn’t awkward. He let her into the room and produced something from a pocket, a beautiful lace mask to replace the heavier cat-mask she had worn all evening. She kissed him on the cheek and ducked into the loo to wash her face and switch masks. She also took the opportunity to kick off her shoes and get out of the dress. Even if all she did was sleep off her night, she wasn’t going to wear the dress. She had no clothes with her, but that was alright. The bathrobe would suit fine.

Removing her makeup was a work of patience, but when her eyeliner remained, as it always did, she just smiled. Leaving the bathroom after cleaning up after herself, John found Richard on the massive bed, out of his suit and clad only in a pair of expensive silk boxer-briefs and his mask. She smiled and stood at the foot of the bed, studying him. Aware of her, his eyes opened. Beautiful, intelligent brown eyes that were, in turn, harsh and gentle. There was some blue and green in them, she noticed on closer study, but they were deep chocolate. His tuxedo had been carefully hung, and she put her dress on a hanger as well. Richard held out one hand to her in invitation, and she joined him on the bed. They spent a few minutes just touching and kissing. The only time she stopped him was when he went to push the robe off her shoulders. She wasn’t modest, by any means, but she had learned early that most of her dates were freaked out by her scar.

“What are you hiding, my lovely?”

“I’m not…pure.” It was the best she could come up with. His eyes narrowed.

“Well, that’s obvious. You’re a woman in command of your body, perhaps your future if you got half a chance.”

“No. This.” She revealed just a bit of the scar, “I’ve worn a vest nearly every time I’ve taken a bloke to my bed after a date. This is a game-changer, and it’s never good.”

“Oh, I have heard the stories of this scar. How you got it.” He stroked what was visible, “Please, may I see it all? Seb told me everything about you, it’s how I knew you at the Masquerade.”

“Did you know I would be there?”

“No, but you coming with Miss Morstan was good luck I wasn’t counting on. You are so much more interesting in person.”

“People don’t see me, they see my flat-mate.”

“Their loss.” He carefully untied the belt of the robe and pushed aside the fabric until her scar was completely visible, “Oh, what a beautiful thing. Did it hurt terribly?”

“No. I didn’t even know I’d been shot until I passed out from shock, startled the insurgent who ended up catching me.”

“After you decimated almost seventy-five percent of their presenting force by yourself, armed with two pistols, a rifle, two knives, and a handful of rocks.” He stroked the star-burst lines, “This is carefully-done scalpel-work here, the lines are uniform, smooth.”

“A cosmetic surgeon specialising in breast-reconstruction did the surgery after I got home.”

“They should be commended for fine work. Did you suffer an infection?”

“Not in Afghanistan, and I was captive there for six months.”

“Germany. Seb was furious.”

“How do you know Seb?”

“Oh, he works for me.”

“Figured.” She snorted, “Not surprised.”

“He speaks well and quite often of you, says he’s never known anyone better at her job than you. Well, excepting your pretty friend Mary. Two unassumingly deadly women living their lives as best they can.”

“Mary is far better off than I am.”

“Oh, you got the short shrift, but you have done your best.” He nuzzled the scar, kissed the centre, where it was most sensitive, and worked his way up to a proper kiss. Their masks brushed as they kissed with purpose, John moaned as soft, dexterous fingers traced her flank, sliding back and under to massage her arse. Oh, clever little bastard. He was hard as a rock against her, and she canted her hips, the fabric of her black panties whispering against his briefs. Silk on silk, silk on lace, soft hints of sound and panting whispers. In a heartbeat, she had shoved the black fabric to his thighs and he tossed her inconsequential scrap of silk off somewhere to the side of the bed. God help the poor housekeeping staff who found that memento. Another moment and they were skin-to-skin. Richard was sturdy but soft in the right places, defined where it mattered, and adequate in size. Better than, in fact.

When he dangled a condom in question, she snatched it from him, tore the corner with her teeth and shook the rolled latex into her hand. She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. Before he could ask what she was thinking, she grabbed him by the shoulders, preserving the condom, and flipped them so she was on top. He hit the pillows with a muffled “oof” and a slightly indignant sound. Quieting him with a kiss, she winked as she shimmed down his body until she was parked between his thighs and eye-to-eye with his glorious cock.

“Hello, dear.” She murmured before slipping the condom between her teeth and taking him to the root, pinning his hips to the mattress with both hands. Her gag-reflex was…well, she didn’t really have one, to be honest. Came in very handy in the operating theatres, and in the bedroom alike. Once the condom was securely wrapped, she chuckled around the perfect mouthful and regretted only that she couldn’t play with it more. His fingers dug into her hair and tugged, a bit harder than necessary. She heard a breathless, hoarse “Stop! Jesus fucking Christ, stop, woman!” With a final rueful hum, she pulled off with a rather obscene slurp and made her way back to his lips.

“Weren’t expecting that, were you?”

“No!”

“Keep things interesting in the bedroom, I always say.”

“How in the name of the Magdalene did you get away with that!”

“No gag-reflex.” She nipped at his ear, “Either freaks blokes out or they love it.”

“No…you’re joking!”

“Dead serious, I will go to my grave telling the truth.” She smiled, “No. Gag-reflex.”

“You lucky little vixen.” He muttered against her lips, “What am I to do with you then, Doctor Watson?” John hummed and took his hand in hers, guiding it to rest between her thighs. She was really quite wet already. Richard groaned deep in his chest and his cock twitched hopefully. He gave an experimental twist of his fingers, making an approving noise when she shivered as a shock raced up her spine. He played with her for a bit, working her closer to the edge but promising no relief.

Finally, growling in her throat, she pinned him to the bed and went down on him, taking all of him in a single smooth thrust. Muscles long unused clenched and fluttered and she wanted to scream. She had missed this part of having a boyfriend, the closeness and intimacy of having sex. Even casual sex could be meaningful if you let it. John threw her head back and lifted herself just a bit. Dextrous fingers dug into her hips and held her still. Searching for a rhythm was half the fun, but when he suddenly changed their positions, it drove him deeper still and John swore in Pashto and Dari. He chuckled above her and held still until she relaxed to take him deeper again. It didn’t take long, between them, to topple over the brink and he grunted as he emptied his load into the condom. John whined as she went right after him, clenching her teeth against a louder cry-out.  It had been _far_ too long since her last tumble, but Jesus Christ had Richard been worth the excruciating wait! John felt him pull away carefully, made an aborted grab for him as he slipped from the bed, but he just stroked her hair and kissed her on the cheek as he disappeared.

“I’ll be right back, my love. Don’t fret.” He crooned, making his way to the loo to take care of business there. God, what a night. Absolutely zero regrets, none at all. The sheets smelled like sex, the pillow smelled like Richard. John buried her face in the pillow and let out a shaky breath. What. A. Night.

* * *

 


	3. Masquerade Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 2, told from Jim's POV. He wasn't expecting John Watson, but getting his hands on one of the most gifted individuals in the city is a bonus. It doesn't hurt, either, that she's one of his own lieutenant's best people. Bit of a shame what's happened to her, though. Jim Moriarty is no White Knight, but he'll be more than happy to step in if John Watson needs saving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Watson, meet James Moriarty! Deadliest man in London, smartest criminal in the UK, and...a secret gentleman?  
> ::  
> If you recognise dialogue from Part 1 in Part 2, it's because I did copy/paste word-for-word the same conversations, just put them in from Jim's POV this time.

* * *

When he came upon John Watson at a costume gala for a hospital benefit, University College London Hospital this time, Jim Moriarty was not prepared for the level of exclusivity and devotion the unassuming ex-soldier-turned-blogger could demand of a person. He already knew everything there was to know about her, thanks entirely to Sebastian Moran, who had mentored and overseen the girl in so many capacities before unkind fates had intervened and seen them dismissed from the Army for different causes. Every skill she had honed to underexploited usefulness, she had learned from Seb. He spoke well and often, quite often, of his clever little Army doctor. Her circumstances were dismal, unfortunate at best and downright dismal at worst. It was passive-aggressive gas-lighting, what she put up with at 221B Baker Street. Seb wanted her, he wanted badly, but Watson’s sensibilities and honour would never let her take the kind of work she had been so fucking good at her name still struck fear into certain sects of the criminal world. It wasn’t morality getting her way, it was pride. So, when he found himself presented with the opportunity to get to know Watson better, Jim had taken it. So far, he had not been disappointed. Watson, it turned out, was not a silly, misguided girl trying to make ends meet. He knew about her past with Black Ops, but her intelligence was staggering. If she was so smart, and she was a genius in her own right, why did she play dumb? He would have to do his research on her, but later. Much later.

He caught up to her towards the end of the gala, having spent the majority of the evening with her after whisking her away from a very amused and cautious Sebastian Moran, following her through the party as she made a final circuit. Looking for him, dear thing. She was a keeper, and Sherlock Holmes was a tremendous moron to have treated her the way he had been. And there was something else about John Watson, something that scratched at his conscience like a persistent cat demanding attention before skirting away again just before making contact.

“You weren’t going to leave on me, were you? Run away?” He breathed against her skin once he had her safely cornered, putting teeth to flesh. She whined.

“No.” It was breathless but determined. No, she was not going to run away. At least, not right this minute. Not that she could, Jim was not interested in letting her go just momentarily. He chuckled and slid one hand along her shoulder, up the side of her neck, around, and into her hair, the slightest tug dropping her head back and giving him blatant access to her throat and jaw.

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, my sweet pet.” He murmured, laying a trail of soft kisses from her ear to the pulse in her neck, “My dear, dear sweet Doctor Watson. You fascinate me.”

“Plain, silly John Watson.” She breathed, “You could have anyone.”

“But I don’t want them, my dear little kitty.” His voice dropped an octave and he kissed just below the edge of her mask, a gorgeous bejewelled cat-mask that suited her so well.  “And you are far from silly.” She made a soft sound, reaching for contact, fingers tight on the fabric of his tuxedo jacket. Unwilling to overwhelm or frighten his new acquisition, he refused to call her a plaything, Jim softened his assault and stroked the line of her jaw with his thumb. She slowly calmed down and he smiled.

“You gorgeous little creature, if I didn’t think for a minute I’d have Moran after me and that idiot Holmes wanting my head, I’d keep you to myself.” He whispered, “Can I kiss you, my dear?” Honestly, it was only Seb he was worried about, Holmes probably wouldn’t notice if she was gone. But Seb? Oh, he had a sharp eye on dear John Watson. And just as well, for all of them.

“Please!” She gasped, “I thought you’d never ask!” Laughing, teasing, careful flirting touches had been the order of the evening, but they hadn’t kissed, not honestly. Kisses on the cheek and hand were regular occurrences, but not…not this. And Jim had been waiting for the chance to kiss John Watson all night. It wasn’t usually something he enjoyed, it took a special sort of person to make it worth his while, but with John Watson, he was more than happy to explore kissing. And all the different ways she enjoyed being kissed. He finally did stop, when taking an honest breath between them became necessary, holding her hard against him to keep her up on her feet.

“Well, aren’t you just a responsive little thing?” Jim kept his voice soft, she responded best to soft-spoken words, endearments, and gentle touches. “It’s like you want to be kissed.” Kissed, caressed, appreciated. Loved, even.

“That wasn’t a kiss! That was something else! I thought _I_ was good at it, but…” She tried to focus on him, “You owe me a name, sir!”

“Do I?”

“Please? Something to call you? You know my name, give me yours?”  She was right, and it really was only fair that he give her _a_ name. So, Jim gave her a false name, a cover of his.

“Richard.”

“Any last name to go with that?”

“Er, Brook. Richard Brook.” He had used Richard Brook before for different causes, and as much as he wanted to give her his real name, it didn’t seem politic just at the moment. So, Richard it was.

“Lovely name, that is. Proper name.” He knew she didn’t think that was his real name, knew it even, clever girl, but she wasn’t going to call him out on it. She knew her priorities. And she’d know who he was, really, soon enough. She got one hand around his neck and pushed until he came down for another kiss. He fought her a bit but relented in time. John smirked at the slightly-bewildered expression on his face before she kissed him again.

“Well, well, Miss Kitty takes what she wants, eh?” His chuckle had a slightly-sinister tone to it after he broke off the kiss, and she shivered in his arms.

“You sound so surprised, Mr Brook!” Watson just raised an eyebrow behind her mask and grinned, baring her teeth. Not a threat, a promise.

“Oh, you’re a clever little thing. Maybe I will keep you, make you a happy kept pet.”

“Respect me first or it won’t be Sebastian Moran coming for your head. And I’ll take your head last. Well,” She narrowed her eyes and one hand went south of the waistband, “the head on your shoulders will be the last to go, not the first.”  Something tripped a switch in her head and Watson went from demure to determined, and he got a glimpse of a wild, animalistic side. Oh, interesting that was! The lap-cat had fangs!

“This conversation is not to be heard by our unsuspecting fellow revellers, my dear Miss Kitty.” He whispered, suddenly hoarse. A woman to be reckoned with, for certain, but he liked a good challenge. He hadn’t had a good challenge in a while, anyway.

“No, I suppose it’s not. You’ve a hotel nearby here?”

“I can arrange that.”

“Please do.” She played with his tie, smoothing the length of silk between her fingers, “You’re the most fun I have had in absolutely weeks, you know.”

“Holmes is a fucking moron for treating you like he has. Downright damn shame, that is.”

“Then, distract me.” She nipped at his jaw and left another mark just below his collar that would heal in an hour. That mark would heal in an hour, but he was not against more permanent reminders. He chuckled at her brazenness. He hated people handling him roughly, taking control of the situation away from him, but this was a woman in charge of her body, a woman who knew how to use her assets to get what she wanted from someone. And lucky, lucky Jim was her new target. If she wanted to play, he would play along with her.

“Follow me, my dear.” He kissed behind her ear, tugging on her hand to lead her away. And she followed him, almost blindly. He paused to speak to Seb and Mary Morstan before taking leave, and Seb warned him to take care with Watson.

“You harm a hair on that girl’s head or break her heart, your head is mine.” Seb’s eyes were dark. That was not an empty threat, and Jim wasn’t fool enough to think so. Seb was prohibitively possessive of his things, and especially of his human assets. Watson and Morstan were two of his best and it would be a work of patience to reassure his lieutenant that he meant Watson no harm at all.

“I hurt John Watson and my guts are your bootlaces, my head’s a hood ornament?” He was only half-joking. He knew damn well what would happen.

“More or less.”

“I’m not going to hurt her, Seb. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of your girl.”

“See that you do.” Seb looked over Jim’s shoulder to where Watson waited patiently, “She’s been through enough, she deserves to be treated right for once.”

“I know.” Jim sobered, “Oh, I know.” Taking his leave of the unlikely pair of agents, both quite good at what they did, Jim collected Watson and led the way from the venue.

-&-

When they ended up at the Conrad London St James, Jim was secretly thrilled. It was a matter of patience to procure a room for the night, and a single key was all they needed for their stay. A single room-key, no wake-up call, just the two of them and the rest of the night ahead of them. She took a lace eye-mask he had “borrowed” from the gala to replace the gorgeous cat-mask she had worn all night and disappeared into the bathroom. While she was taking care of herself, Jim laid aside his all-black tuxedo and accessories and sent orders to Seb to pull every single one of Watson’s records, those that were publicly available and those that…weren’t. He would do his homework in the morning. He also had clothes brought over, to be delivered when he gave the signal.

Watson came out of the loo in a bathrobe and, potentially, nothing else. Her face bare of all makeup except a trace of mascara, eye-liner, and a smudge of lipstick, she was beautiful to him. She wanted to play, and they played a bit. But when he went to remove the robe, she stopped him. It was her scar that she was keeping covered, she explained, and it had put off a few past lovers. Not that she’d had very many since returning to London, of course. But Jim knew the origins of the scar, the unbelievable story behind it, and paid it the affection and attention it deserved.

“Oh, I have heard the stories of this scar. How you got it.” He stroked what was visible, “Please, may I see it all? Seb told me everything about you, it’s how I knew you at the Masquerade.”

“Did you know I would be there?”

“No, but you coming with Miss Morstan was good luck I wasn’t counting on.” He smiled, “You are so much more interesting in person.”

“People don’t see me, they see my flat-mate.” And she _hated_ that. So did Jim, to be completely honest. He might be worst of the worst, heartless at best, but even he knew you didn’t treat someone like that. Ever. Karma had interesting ways of coming back for you if you weren’t careful.

“Their loss.” He carefully untied the belt of the robe and pushed aside the fabric until her scar was completely visible. “Oh, what a beautiful thing. Did it hurt terribly?”

“No. I didn’t even know I’d been shot until I passed out from shock, startled the insurgent who ended up catching me.”

“After you decimated almost seventy-five percent of their presenting force by yourself, armed with two pistols, a rifle, two knives, and a handful of rocks.” He stroked the star-burst lines, “This is carefully-done scalpel-work here, the lines are uniform, smooth.”

“A cosmetic surgeon specialising in breast-reconstruction did the surgery after I got home.”

“They should be commended for fine work. Did you suffer an infection?”

“Not in Afghanistan, and I was captive there for six months.”

“Germany. Seb was furious.”

“How do you know Seb?” She tilted her head to one side.

“Oh, he works for me.”

“Figured.” She snorted, “Not surprised.”

“He speaks well and quite often of you, says he’s never known anyone better at her job than you. Well, excepting your pretty friend Mary. Two unassumingly deadly women living their lives as best they can.”

“Mary is far better off than I am.”

“Oh, you got the short shrift, but you have done your best.” He nuzzled the scar, kissed the centre, where it was most sensitive, and worked his way up to a proper kiss. Jim wondered, briefly and foolishly, if anyone had ever told Watson she was beautiful and meant it. She was beautiful in the way a wolf or a tiger was, but her deadliness was not as apparent. Jim thought she deserved the good things in life, the finer things on offer, the freedom to be herself in all of the ways that mattered.

Also, he wanted John Watson for himself. And usually, Jim got what he wanted. In one way or another. After an evening in her company, the heartless criminal mastermind of London’s under-classes wanted something for himself and for Watson’s sake. He didn’t know if he could make her happy, but he was certainly willing to try. But he was playing with Molly Hooper over at Saint Bart’s just at the moment. Could he…“cheat” on Molly? With Watson? He was trying to get to her idiot of a flat-mate, after all, but he…Jim didn’t want to use Watson that way. Hooper, that was fine, she was expendable. But Watson was something special, she deserved more. Not to mention, if a single thing went wrong and Watson got hurt somehow, Seb would quite literally kill him. Mary would certainly help, and Watson would help with cover-stories and disposal. Between those three, murder looked like an accident and you crossed them at your own risk.

 

When he decided to push for a bit more, in the spirit of the night’s festivities, Watson did not disappoint. Apparently, she had garnered herself a nickname in the Army: Three Continents Watson, able to pull any and all partners she desired with a few sweet words, a shy smile, and a door left unlocked. And Jim got first-hand experience with just _how_ she might have gotten that nickname and its reputation. They traded places on who topped whom, and he learned that she spoke foreign languages during lovemaking. He was fairly certain she was cursing at him, and it made him laugh. But she did not fight that ultimate surrender, and when he came back from the loo after a brief but sufficient wipe-down to find her dozing off on the massive bed, all Jim did was smile. John Watson was special, and if Sherlock Holmes didn’t want to protect her and nurture her intelligence and skills, then Jim would be more than happy to make an offer she would be foolish to refuse. With care not to disturb her too much, he wiped her down with a clean, damp cloth, and tucked her under the blankets before joining her. It was his practice to take what he desired of a partner and then leave them, but Watson deserved better from him and he would be there for her in the morning when the sun came up and it was time for them to part ways again.

The only further disturbance was a soft knock fifteen minutes later, and he went to take two go-bags from Seb, who had stopped by the St. Luke's Road safe-house where Watson had spent most of the afternoon to get a few things for the underappreciated blogger. Without a word, but a smug, knowing smile, Seb tossed him a lopsided salute and was gone. 

“‘Night, Boss!” he called back over his shoulder. 

“Goodnight, Seb.” Jim chuckled and closed the door, setting the locks so no one else would disturb them. Back to bed, where it was quiet, warm, and safe. Watson, subconsciously aware of him even in her sleep, snuggled in close when she detected his return. John Watson was special, and Jim was willing to do what it took to make her happy, if even for a night. Unashamed of being a bit sappy, Jim tipped his head and kissed the soft blonde hair. It had been a surprisingly good night, considering he usually hated public affairs the likes of the gala because he had to play nice with people he would honestly rather have nothing to do with. Tonight had been worth the agony of getting dressed up for the sake of shaking hands and establishing necessary contacts, if only because he had finally gotten hands on John Watson, and gotten the gifted soldier to himself for a few hours.

* * *

 


	4. Come To Camden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Game is played, and things don't quite go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is no damsel in distress, and if she could see straight, she'd kick the arses of whatever idiot thugs tried (and sort of succeeded?) to kidnap her from Baker Street. She kind of already did that, and they'll pay handsomely for their mistake. No one hurts John Watson while Jim Moriarty's holding the leash. No one.

* * *

After the gala, John didn’t see Richard or think about him beyond the occasional daydream for almost two weeks. Richard and John, a perfect pair of liars just looking for a night of forgetting who they really were and pretending that whatever waited for them in the real world didn’t exist or matter, just for a few hours. Not to mention, the sex had been phenomenal. Sherlock didn’t ask about her night, where she had gone or who she was with, and it was back to business once she returned to Baker Street. She worked her hours at the clinic, kept up her blog, and was ignored by Sherlock until he needed her for something.

But things got very interesting when an unusual string of cases came to the attention of Baker Street in an explosive fashion. Literally, there was an explosion involved. The discovery of an in-tact safe with a pink smart-phone inside, one that looked eerily familiar to John and Sherlock, in the ruins of the house across the street from Baker Street led them to the basement-flat of Baker Street. In 221C, they discovered a pair of old, well-kept red-and-white trainers that John recognised right away. She not only knew who had owned those shoes, but she knew when they had last been seen and what had happened to the owner. She didn’t regret a damn thing that had happened to Carl Powers, the sly little fucker had deserved everything that happened, but she had regretted the loss of those shoes.

 

John remembered Jimmy Young recruiting her, all of thirteen and already rather crooked in her own way, to help him plan out the end of their mutual bully Carl Powers. She had met Jimmy when she was six and he was five, on a playground near her family’s house in Richmond. It had always confused people that Carl was such a bully, considering he was younger than some of them. But age did not define how kind or cruel someone could be. When Carl Powers had died in 1989, he was eleven, John was fourteen, and Jimmy was thirteen.

After that quietly-orchestrated, carefully-planned murder, John and Jimmy had lost touch. Her family had moved to Glastonbury that winter and she hadn’t returned to London for more than a brief holiday or university, when she decided to go to medical school, since. She had missed Jimmy terribly, he had been her best friend. They had done everything together, had shared grievances of abusive parent-figures and cruel siblings. John had her father and her sister Harriet, Jimmy had his father and a brother named Richard.  She had thought of him often in the years since, but when she tried to look him up once, there wasn’t anyone under that name to be found. His father was dead, and his brother had hung up on her, said he didn’t know what she could possibly want with his failure of a brother and too bad she’d lost touch, or this wouldn’t be a problem.

-&-

The shoes, Carl Powers’ shoes, led to a string of live victims and hostages, one ended up dead and took twelve others with her when the poor woman tried to describe the sound of the bomber’s voice. The death-toll was closer to thirteen or fourteen, the exact total was uncertain just at the moment. But nothing really changed until John got herself picked up leaving Baker Street late one night by some of the clumsiest thugs she’d ever met, and that was really saying something. She just had to wonder who had thought these lot were worth hiring. Hell, she could do a better kidnapping job than they did, and a lot less messy, too. One of them would have to go to hospital for a broken nose and a broken hand. And they couldn’t even knock her out properly. A half-dose of Ativan was not going to affect her, make her a bit drowsy and very, very cranky because of the headache, but she was happy to give whoever was behind this latest misadventure a very sharp piece of her mind. She was already mad at Sherlock, who was still being a bull-headed, insensitive bastard, and this latest turn-up just didn’t help her mood at all.

She was able to track each turn and straight-away, and the direction they were going after being drugged, trussed, and tossed into a van. They headed east and a little…south from Baker Street. After a few miles and several turns, they stopped. She was dragged from the van they’d stuffed her into and hustled into…some kind of building. Her sense of smell informed her that she was in or near a pool deck. Ugh. Then, the morons had the lack of insight to leave her alone in a semi-dark room with two doors and a damp, textured-concrete floor. They had tied her up with duct tape and rope. They had also gagged her and put a hood over her head to keep her from seeing. It was hard to trick an ex-Army Special Forces sniper and assassin, but they certainly did try, the clumsy dears. As soon as the door, a door, clanged shut, John was moving and getting herself free. Using the edge of the shelving behind her, after finding it by touch, she cut her duct-tape bonds and pulled off her gag and hood and set to work on the rope they had tied around her feet when they’d left her here. Once she did that, John took stock. They’d taken her jacket and put her in a green parka and under the parka…a bomb-vest.

“Bloody hell.” She muttered. There was no timer, but it had all the flashy lights and what looked like (and felt like) enough Semtex to level a house. Shaking her head, John found her multi-tool and opened the small knife. Counting the wires and running through her not-insignificant knowledge of EOD and different vest layouts, she made a few quick, precise snips and snaps and dummied the vest completely. She was unzipping the whole mess and was about to drop it on the floor of the maintenance closet they had left her in (really, a fucking maintenance closet? Sheesh, a little originality wouldn’t kill anyone, would it?), when the door crashed open.

“Your boys picked a bad target, my son.” She muttered, brushing off her sleeveless jumper after dumping the vest and parka on the damp floor, “Couldn’t even knock me out properly. And any good kidnapper knows, never ever leave your victims armed. Always pat down for armaments. Damn shoddy job, that was.”

“Y’know, Seb hasn’t stopped laughing since he told Vinz to get himself to hospital?”

“Vinz is an idiot. Half a dose of Ativan gives me a headache and if you know anything, you know that’s not going to make me very nice to anyone.” She looked up, “Hi, Jim.”

“John.” Leaning against the open door, wearing a neatly-tailored two-piece Westwood with a silver-and-grey tie designed with little skulls and a different fox tie-pin, this one a fox-head, wearing a smug smile, was Jim Moriarty. “John Watson. John Hamish Watson. One of the deadliest women in London, and entirely unappreciated. How are you, my dear?”

“I have been infinitely better. I sure hope you weren’t trying  to get Sherlock’s attention with this little stunt, he’s not in a hurry to come to my rescue.”

“Oh, he’ll come. Don’t worry about that.” Jim just pushed away from the door, “You didn’t waste any time, did you?” Meaning the discarded bits of rope and tape, and the dummied vest.

“Not my first kidnapping, but definitely the first time I got strapped into a bomb-vest. You need smarter goons, I think.” She huffed, rubbing her forehead. She felt a little light-headed and slightly woozy, but that was only to be expected. “Oh, and thanks for not saying anything.”

“Saying anything?”

“At Bart’s the other day.”

“Oh, that? No, I’m not about to out my best girl to her undeserving prick of a flat-mate.” Jim came right up to her, putting his hands on her shoulders, and looked her over, “If I didn’t think you’d lay me out for it, I’d kiss you. But you seem rather angry at the moment.”

“Well, asking nicely can get you small favours.” She tilted her head, ignoring the throbbing headache, “Besides, you’re the one asking.” John was remembering the masquerade from a few weeks ago, her night with “Richard”, and the shock of meeting Jim at Saint Bart’s, and recognizing him, only to realise he was supposedly dating Molly Hooper. That had kind of been a mess after Sherlock started picking on Jim, and it had taken all of John’s self-control not to run after Jim and just…get away from it. To beg him to give her work, to let her stay. Anything.

“Stop. Thinking.” He scolded,  going on to distract her with a very effective kiss. John moaned and felt her knees buckle. The Ativan was still in her system, but Jim was there. Jim had always been there. He would always be there. Familiar arms went around her, shoulders and waist, and held her steady while he sent her unstable awareness spinning. She didn’t feel nauseous yet, just…giddy. There was something he did with his tongue, and she had never figured it out, she kind of didn’t want to.

“Holy shit.” She breathed, “What was that?”

“That was a kiss.”

“Jesus. Do that again and I may not be able to stand on my own feet.”

“God I missed you, John. How many years has it been?”

“S-since the two of us pulled off the perfect murder that had the police scratching their heads and Sherlock Holmes fuming because he couldn’t get anyone to listen to a twelve-year-old boy? Er, twenty-one, I think.” She leaned back and looked up at Jim, “Really?”

“Hmm, sounds right. Shame, that, but here we are.”

“Waiting for my idiot flat-mate to show up and hand over plans you probably have two copies of already.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

“Nope.” She leaned against Jim, “So, now what?”

“If I promise no one else gets hurt, can I mess with him?”

“If I believed you for a minute, but I showed up here strapped to enough Semtex to level this building.” She aimed a half-hearted kick at the defunct vest. “Besides, I’m already on bad terms with him, I’m not really keen on getting kicked out of Baker Street for good.”

“Just come and live with me, then. I have plenty of room.”         

“What about work?”

“You can keep your job at the clinic, even go full-time if you want. Or you can quit and work somewhere else.”

“Mm.” She closed her eyes, “Might be time to turn in my two weeks’ notice. Sam and I haven’t really been on speaking terms either since the mess with The Black Lotus.”

“I can give you work. Plenty of it. And all of the good things you deserve and don’t have.” He touched her cheek, and she raised her head. Another kiss was only interrupted when someone walked in. It was Seb, so it didn’t really matter. He coughed politely to get their attention and snickered when John responded by giving him a one-finger salute out of friendly spite.

“Nice to see you, too, John.”

“Fuck off, Seb.” She looked over at her former commander, “Is Sherlock here?”

“Just showed.”

“Poncy moron.” She muttered. The boys chuckled and Seb gave her a new vest. A flashy-lights version of the same one she’d dummied, but the Semtex was bars of soap wrapped in clay and black cellophane. A legit dummy-vest. John raised an eyebrow as she strapped herself into it, noticing that it weighed the same as the real thing, and tugged on the zipper of the parka.

“Think he’ll notice we changed your coat?” Seb wondered as he set her up with a radio and earpiece.

“Probably not. He barely notices when I’m gone, never mind what I’m wearing.” She tugged on the wire of the earpiece, “What’s this for?”

“You repeat what I say and we mess with your flatmate’s head.” Jim watched with a slightly crooked smile.

“Oh. That’ll be fun.” She reset the frequency on the receiver. “Anyone else in here except Seb?”

“Seb and five calibrated laser-pointers.”

“Laser-pointers!” She snickered, “That’s not going to fool anyone!”

“It might.”

“We’ll see.” She sighed, “Back to your post, Seb. I found your frequency. Might want to change it someday, not be so predictable?”

“Yes’m.” Seb grinned and went off again, almost whistling. John started to feel a little sick to her stomach and leaned against the wall facing it, bracing her arms against the wall and resting her head there.

“Ugh.”

“Nerves?”

“Or the Ativan. Might be both.” She felt her knees shaking and took a deep breath, “I am not going to be sick, I am not. I am not.”

 _“John? Are you okay, sweetie?”_ She heard Seb’s voice in the earpiece.  _“Your vitals just spiked. What’s going on down there?”_ Oh, of course they had a tracker on her. Good thing they did, to be honest.

“Hold off a bit, Seb. Do you have eyes on Holmes?” Jim was right behind her, hands on her shoulders just offering support. “Breathe, John. Deep, slow breaths.”

_“He’s on the pool deck. Looks like he’s got the plans, but I can’t tell.”_

“Does he have a thumb-drive, Seb?” John raised her head a little. This was either a delayed reaction to the Ativan or a panic attack, or something else.

 _“If he does, I can’t see one. Oh, hang on.”_ Outside, they heard Sherlock carrying on.

“I brought you something!” He called out, “A little getting-to-know-you present!”

“The plans.” John sank to her knees, unable to hold herself up, “He brought the fucking plans. What were you going to do with them?”

“Nothing.” Jim stood right behind her, “Andrew West was a complete idiot, really. Not that he deserved to die, but…still.”

“Y’know, his fiancée’s brother confessed pretty damn quick when I confronted him about it.”

“You always were good at questioning people.” Jim  knelt behind her as she started shaking, “John?”

“What the fuck did they knock me out with! Ativan doesn’t do this to me!”

“That’s a question for Seb.” He rubbed her shoulders. “I said, I _said_ , Ativan only!”

“Doesn’t mean they got the memo or listened if they did!” John coughed. “Seb!”

 _“I heard. Before I sent him off, Vinz admitted they didn’t end up using Ativan with John.”_ Seb’s voice crackled over the earpiece, _“Said they didn’t think it would be enough.”_

“Then what the fuck did they use?” Jim’s tone of voice changed very quickly. Dimwitted Vinz and his buddy were going to pay for taking matters into their own hands.

_“Uh, I think he said they gave her Ketamine. Ten milligrams.”_

“That explains everything,” John muttered.

“Are you sure that’s what they said?”

_“Absolutely. I didn’t say it, but that was a damn stupid thing to do.”_

“Considering she’s allergic to Ketamine! Yeah, it was! Jesus fucking Christ!” Jim growled, lunging to his feet and rummaging the shelves overhead for a first-aid kit. There were several, he just had to find one. John, to distract herself, listed the side-effects of Ketamine, and the ones that affected her:

**Feeling like you might pass out: yes**

**Slow heart rate, weak or shallow breathing: yes, yes, and yes**

**Jerky muscle movements that may look like convulsions: yes, shaking**

**Dream-like feeling: yes**

**Blurred vision, double vision: yes**

**Mild dizziness, drowsiness: yes**

**Nausea: yes**

She was further distracted when she heard Jim’s phone buzz. It was a text from Sherlock.

“What’s he saying?”

“Shh. Says “I’m here, Camden Pool. Where r u? Still game? – SH”.”

“Fucking…”

“Ah-hah! Here!” Jim made a pleased sound and she heard the sound of plastic ripping. A minute later, he was kneeling in front of her, waving something at her. “Found one of these lovelies.” John recognised an Epipen and sighed with relief. That would do the trick, but her next stop after this mess was an A&E Department. Moving quickly, Jim popped the protective cap off the auto-injector and braced one hand on her leg before she felt a sharp jab in her thigh.

“One. Two. Th-Three.” She counted out loud to the count of three, using the pain to focus.

“Good girl. Breathe.” He coached, “Deep breath in. Breathe out.” The epinephrine worked almost instantly, and John coughed. Disposing of the Epipen properly, Jim sent off a reply to Sherlock that he would be there very, very soon, just be patient. Three minutes later, John could stand. She didn’t have long, but she could play a bit of Jim’s game with Sherlock. He hugged her tight and promised to get her help if Sherlock didn’t do it for him. If Seb hadn’t called an ambulance already, he would soon. With a kiss on the cheek, he turned her ‘round and let her out of the maintenance closet. Show-time.

* * *

 


	5. Camden Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to Camden, and John plays a potentially lethal game. Time's up! Or, is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek! Okay, so, don't worry, I don't ACTUALLY hurt anyone. John's in trouble, but she'll be okay. I promise. Jim wouldn't let her suffer like that when Seb's perfectly capable of making his death look like a complete accident. And that's if they find his body! Onward!

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes arrived at the pool in Camden where Carl Powers had died in 1989, he was a bit disappointed to have apparently arrived first. But the bomber, whoever he was, had taken John Watson. That was a very gutsy move, for a few reasons. For one, it was in a public street, plenty of people and traffic, plenty of witnesses even at this time of night. Also, John had fought back against her kidnappers, he’d found traces of blood at the scene where she had been taken, just a few doors up from Baker Street. He had collected a sample of the blood and rushed to Barts to test it. It came back to a male suspect, and he got a hit very, very quickly for a small-time criminal named Vinz Ballard, native of Switzerland with a British mother and a Swiss father, and a record of trespassing, menacing, and burglary.

He suspected that whoever Vinz Ballard worked for was the same man he was looking for, so he arranged to meet the bomber at the pool at midnight, he knew he would meet the man behind the very, very interesting puzzles. Yes, people had died, yes John had yelled at him for being an insensitive bastard, but that was no different than the past few weeks. The only thing he legitimately felt sorry for was that he may have truly hurt Molly Hooper’s feelings. She had truly liked Jim, her office-romance. But Molly could do so much better than a bumbling IT tech with appallingly homosexual preferences. She seemed to be coming around a bit and had told him to be careful when he left Barts.

Now, Sherlock was waiting for his mystery playmate to reveal themselves. Somewhere else on the pool-deck, he heard a door open. This was it. He spun on his heel, careful of the slick deck under his feet, it wouldn’t do to take a tumble and fall into the pool, would it? But the figure that came into view was…not anyone he had expected. Well, no, that was a lie, but…still.

“Evening.” The familiar, stocky figure spoke to him, “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“John.” He breathed, “What the hell...?” It was John Watson, but there was something very wrong with her. Well, with all of this. Her clothes, for one. And she didn’t look well at all. It was far too warm in the deck for the heavy parka she was wearing. Her face was pale, far too pale, and he saw a sheen of sweat on her forehead that had slicked her hair and plastered it to her skin. She was sick. It wasn’t just the humidity of the pool deck that had her sweating, she was _sick_.

“Bet you never saw this coming.” Her words didn’t seem to come out right, she was slurring and he suspected she was being told exactly what to say. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, she had been drugged with something very strong and hadn’t recovered completely. The slight tremors shaking her frame proved it, along with other markers he deduced, processed, and filed away.

“John…”

“What...would you like me...to make her say...next?” She repeated, word-for-word, someone else’s dialogue.

“Stop it.”

“Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him.” She kept talking, kept slurring, kept blinking. “I can stop John Watson too. Stop her heart.”He realized that her seemingly-erratic blinking pattern was actually a silent cry for help. SOS signals, an old trick used by POWs in captivity during ransom videos. She was asking for his help, but…what could he do? What could either of them do? She could barely stand up and he…well, he wasn’t in much of a position to help her, was he? Sherlock stepped closer but stopped well away from her. Deductions were made, data disseminated and stored, and he looked her right in the eye.

“That’s not your coat.” He looked away from John then, got a look around the pool deck, “That’s not Doctor Watson’s coat. Where are you? Who are you?”

“Of course it’s not John’s coat. It’s mine.” A different voice spoke from just behind John, and Sherlock froze. “A bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you, Sherlock?”

“That voice…”

“I left you a note, Sherlock. I gave you my number.” The man behind the voice, behind John’s dialogue, behind this whole very interesting mess, stepped into view. “I thought you might call.” The man standing behind John looked familiar, but Sherlock couldn’t place him.

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket...or are you just pleased to see me?” He looked Sherlock over and grinned.

“Both.” Sherlock pulled the smuggled gun from his trousers and brandished it carefully. It wasn’t John’s gun, she’d annoyingly taken hers when she’d left the flat earlier. It was Sherlock’s, he just didn’t like to use it or bring it out.

“Jim Moriarty. Hi!”

Sherlock tilted his head as he looked more closely at the man. This was the man holding Jefferson Hope's leash? The man he wouldn't name? The man Mrs Wenceslas had finally given up after Sherlock confronted her about the false Vermeer, much as Hope had just a few months ago. Not much to really look at, was he? Moriarty. James Richard Moriarty. Criminal mastermind and one of the most interesting people Sherlock had ever met.

“Jim? Jim from the hospital?” Moriarty began to walk alongside the deep end again. Sherlock brought up his other hand to support the one aiming the Browning.

“Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression?” Moriarty bit his lip as if disappointed. “But then, I suppose, that was rather the point.” He turned to face Sherlock just as a sniper’s laser flickered over John’s upper chest. Sherlock briefly turned his head towards John. Something was very, very wrong, he just didn’t know what. John looked about ready to pass out.

“Don’t be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle.” Moriarty made a slightly dismissive gesture, shaking his head. “I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” Moriarty stopped at the corner of the pool and turned. “I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see...like you!” As if he was genuinely surprised to come to that conclusion. Sherlock bristled.

“We are nothing alike.” He snarled.

“No. We’re not, I suppose, are we?” Moriarty tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, “Do you have the plans or not?”

“Here.” He tossed the thumb-drive to Moriarty, not caring much what he did with those plans.

“S-stop…” John swayed on her feet, nearly toppled, “Please…just…please stop.”

“John!” Sherlock took one step towards her, prepared to catch her if he had to.

“It’s not a game!” She whined right before she collapsed in his arms. He barely had time to stash the Browning and catch her. Half of her sudden weight was carried down by Moriarty, who did something very unusual as he pocketed the thumb-drive and removed the parka and the vest, tossing both aside.

“Did anyone see you come here?” He looked at Sherlock, who was struggling to process the new information coming in, trying to make sense of something that suddenly made very _little_ sense at all. Where had they lost control of this?

“No. What happened to her?” He glanced at John, who was struggling to breathe, to stay conscious.

“Ketamine. Turns out she’s severely allergic, did you know that about her?”

“Oh, John.” He looked up at the madman, who suddenly seemed rather…human. Surprisingly human, very normal. And very, _very_ concerned. “Has an ambulance been called? We can’t just sit here. She’ll relapse.”

“Don’t worry, an ambulance is on its way. Seb called them, probably as soon as you got here.”

“Why her?” He had to know, he wanted a straight answer out of Moriarty, “Why did you take John Watson? She never did a damn thing to you.”

“I took her to prove a point, Sherlock.” Moriarty looked at him, “Help me elevate her head, keep her airway open.”

“Prove a point? She’s not a pawn!”

“I never said she was. I said I took her to prove a fucking point.” Moriarty rolled his eyes, “Think about it, Sherlock. Use that great bloody brain of yours and think for a minute.” Sherlock settled with John’s feet in his lap, her head resting in Moriarty’s, and he went back over everything he knew about the woman lying between them, hanging onto consciousness by a thread.

“When did you notice she was missing?”

“Ten minutes after you took her. I went to find her, and I found traces of blood. It wasn’t hers.” He rubbed John’s ankle, listening for the wail of sirens, “What’s going to happen to Vinz Ballard?”

“Don’t worry, Ballard and Sykes won’t be making that mistake again.”

“What mistake?”

“They assumed. I told them, very clearly and in no uncertain terms that they were to use Ativan and nothing else to take her down.” Oh, the way Moriarty’s voice dropped. “They decided, without my knowing or say-so, to use Ketamine instead, decided that Ativan wouldn’t be enough to bring her down.”

“How much did they give her?” He had one hand on her wrist, two fingers pressed to a scarily unstable pulse. She was still breathing, but she desperately needed to go to a hospital.

“Ten milligrams. I dosed her with epinephrine before you got near her, but she needs more than that.”

“You know her from somewhere.”

“I do know her from somewhere.” Jim looked around the pool deck, “Those shoes you two found at Baker Street?”

“She said she knew where they came from, who had owned them. She said she’d known Carl Powers.”

“She did. We both did. He was a fucking bastard and a mean little bully.”

“You killed him.”

“We killed him.” Moriarty stroked John’s hair, “It was elegant and subtle.”

“John…”

“Never ever underestimate this woman again, Holmes. She’ll kill you in your sleep and make it look like a fucking accident.” Moriarty’s voice was soft, “She’s seen shit that would give the two of us proper nightmares, killed for money. Took a job for anyone who had the means to pay her.”

“She was a sniper.” He knew there was a chapter of her records that was kept dark, he had assumed Special Forces or even Intelligence.

“She was more than that. John was a spy.” Moriarty handed him something, he knew what it was and exactly what to do with it.

“MI-5?” He popped the blue activation cap off with his thumb, without triggering the mechanism, and murmured an apology when she flinched as he injected the second dose of epinephrine.

“No, and not MI-6, but she worked for them. Contracted jobs.”

“Oh my god.” No wonder she was so good at certain things. He counted to three in his head and tossed the used auto-injector aside, rubbing the site with his hand.

“Her shooting Jefferson Hope through two windows and at a hundred feet was no fluke.”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“If she comes back, Holmes, you need to treat her like the Queen Herself is living at Baker Street. She deserves better.”

“I can’t stop her from leaving.”

“Make it worth her while to stay. She really does like the work, but the work-environment is beyond toxic. You can’t treat anyone like that and expect them to just sit there and take it like an obedient pet. You need to challenge her, give her puzzles, jobs to do. Research, interviews, anything you can’t be bothered to do yourself.” Which was, honestly, most of their workload. And yet he insisted on doing it himself because he didn’t think John could do it properly. Experience had proven that if he wanted something done, it was best to do all of the work himself because others could not be trusted to do it efficiently or to his standards. But John was smart, smarter than she looked. Maybe it was time to give her a chance to prove herself? The wail of sirens got his attention and he looked up.

“There’s the ambulance.” He murmured. A minute later, they were joined by a team of paramedics, who collected John, took her vitals, and informed Moriarty and Sherlock that they were taking her to Royal London Hospital if they were interested in following. Which, obviously, they were. Instead of taking a taxi, which was his usual method, Sherlock offered to share a ride with Moriarty. It was faster and he did not have the leisure of being picky about how he got to the hospital just at the moment. The faster the better. John needed him, and it was time to be a good friend.

Thirty minutes later, Sebastian Moran dropped them off and he went inside the hospital to wait for John. Because of the circumstances necessitating her visit, she was kept overnight for observation. Sherlock was smart enough to know it was entirely his fault John was in the hospital at all and stayed overnight. Moriarty stayed with him, splitting the watch with him and eventually banishing him to the cramped roll-away cot a too-cheerful charge-nurse had brought them after they asked for one. It was nearly six in the morning and the sun was half-up, but Sherlock slept. Not well, of course, but he slept.

* * *

 


	6. Saints and Foxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Game has ended for the time being. It's time to move on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets involved and it's the beginning of a beautiful, if unusual, relationship. A clean slate for Baker Street and life moves on.

* * *

As soon as he could get away from the scene he had been on when Sherlock Holmes called him in a panic to tell him that John Watson was in the hospital after an encounter in Camden with Jim Moriarty, who was behind all of the puzzles and bomb-threats they had been chasing for the past three days, Greg Lestrade gave orders to his team and took off for Royal London Hospital. He could only begin to imagine where things had gone so badly wrong that John was in the hospital for whatever reason. He swore if anything had happened that she was out of commission for more than a day or two, no thanks to her idiot flat-mate and his new playmate, Greg had some words for the boys. He hadn’t had a chance to meet the mysterious Jim Moriarty, but he’d done his research. The man was a force to be reckoned with, holding the strings of every criminal in London and then some. But there was something missing, some piece they didn’t have. One thing Greg had learned during his years as a cop, everyone had a pressure-point, some weakness, and he would be one of Philip Anderson’s personal idiots if Moriarty didn’t have one of his own. When he got stuck in traffic, (why was there traffic like this at nine in the morning on a Thursday?), Greg put his head down on the steering wheel and muttered under his breath.

“Oh, come on already! Move, damn it!” He groaned, looking out at the gridlock, “What’s the fucking hold-up?” A quick check of traffic showed a couple of roadworks and an incident with two cars involved. Great. He had places to go, people to see! And skulls to crack if those boys had gotten John into any kind of trouble she couldn’t walk out of the hospital by herself in the next couple of hours, he’d give her until the following day. Suddenly, he realized something.

“Wait a minute. I’m in a squad car. I have lights.” And a siren. Who was going to know there was no legitimate emergency somewhere else in the city if he just happened to use them right now? Looking at the clock, he used his GPS to plot a new route around the traffic jams. Time to go. Grinning a bit madly, he reached up and flipped on his lights and sirens, pulled out of traffic, and put his foot down. Checking the map at another short snarl-up, he made a quick left and swung around again.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up at the hospital, parking right outside the A&E department. Running inside with his badge in one hand and his keys in the other, he stopped by the desk long enough to startle the nurses.

“Watson. They brought her in this morning from Camden.”

“Are you family?”

“Do I have to be?” He raised an eyebrow at the woman.

“Family gets preference, and besides, the bedside limit is two people.”

“I know who’s with her. Now can I see her or not?” He growled, “I can make this official police business if I need to.” Which wasn’t really an empty threat, it was technically police-business but no one knew otherwise. And he had the feeling there would be little to no evidence John and the boys had ever been at that pool this morning if they went back now to work a scene. When he flashed his badge, the nurse’s eyes widened and she just pointed the way, giving him a room number.

“That’s what I thought. Thanks.” He set off down the hall. It didn’t take him long to find the room. Stopping outside the door, he took a minute to straighten his clothes and do something with his hair, which was kind of sticking up in all directions. A week without sleep didn’t do anyone favours, and he wasn’t young anymore. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and looked in on a quiet room. It looked like all three kids were asleep, and that was fine. John slept fitfully on the bed, and he assumed the dark-haired gent in the cramped chair was Moriarty. He’d seen pictures, of course, he knew the bloke was handsome. A lot like Sherlock in some ways, and completely different in others. He looked for Sherlock and found the great blundering moron sleeping on a roll-away cot. The boys didn’t look very comfortable, none of them did, and Greg sighed.

He hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours, slept in twice that. Stepping out again, he hunted down coffee. He found a tired, overused vending machine in a waiting-room area down the hall and got one cup for himself, gulping it down before he got some for the boys. Going back to the room with one cup in each hand, he nudged the door open with his foot and shouldered his way inside. The boys still slept. Fine. Approaching the bed first, he reached out and nudged at Moriarty, who looked awfully young in his sleep. Poor kid was out pretty good, Greg had to nearly kick him to wake him properly. When he got a grumbled “What now?” and a doleful glare, he just raised an eyebrow.

“Morning, Boss.” He held out the coffee.

“Inspector Lestrade.”

“Take it easy, son. I’m not here for you.” He nodded at the cup, “Nothing but sugar and coffee.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Came by to see what kind of trouble you idiot kids are getting into when my back’s turned. Should know better than to think I can trust the Baker Street tecs to mind their own business and not get into something I need to get them out of again, but you know what they say.”

“Stubborn is as stubborn does?”

“Something like that.” He turned towards the cot, “How long’s he been asleep?”

“A couple of hours. What’s the time?”

“Nearly half-past nine.” He looked at his watch. It was 9:25 by now. He groaned, “Too fucking old for this shit. Ratty kids keeping me on my toes.”

“Sorry about that, sir.”

“Yeah, if I didn’t know what you did for a living, I might believe you.” He rolled his eyes and got Sherlock up. “Hey, Sunshine. Coffee. Up you get.”

“Greg. When did you get here?”

“Couple minutes ago. Had to threaten my way past the Gorgon at the desk, she wasn’t playing nice.”

“Did you cheat?”

“Absolutely.” He knew what Sherlock wasn’t asking and grinned, “You think I wasn’t about to? I was over in Kipling Estate when you lot called. Took me this long to get out.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked and took a sip of coffee. Greg chuckled and ruffled unruly curls.

“So, if I asked what happened last night in Camden, would either of you idiots tell me the truth?”

“Um.” The look the boys shared said plenty and Greg just smiled into his coffee. They stood on completely different sides of the fence from each other, but it looked like they got along fine.

“Didn’t think so.” He couldn’t help another chuckle and shook his head.

-&-

The only interruption they got was a fussy nurse bustling in, far too loudly for Greg’s liking, and going about her business. Well, if John had been asleep, she sure wasn’t anymore. Greg knew from experience just how cranky she could be if she got a rude awakening, and was not surprised at all when she suddenly came around cursing at the nurse. Greg almost choked on his coffee.

“Guess she’s awake.” One of the boys muttered.

“Of fucking course I’m awake! It’s not like I’m dead, is it?” John snapped.

“Now, now, there’s no need to raise your voice, miss. No one here is trying to hassle you.” The nurse said calmly as she took John’s hand in hers. One of the boys made some rude noise, it turned out to be Moriarty cursing in Irish Gaelic. Greg couldn’t help it and laughed.

“Not funny! Shut it!” John hissed.

“If I didn’t think you’d take my head off.” He grinned, “Sorry, love.”

“Some great help the three of you are! Kind of useless!”

“Oh, you don’t mean that, my dear.” Jim soothed. The nurse finished what she was doing and made a note on the chart.

“I’ll go see about the doctor. You should be able to go home, Miss Watson.”

“This soon?” A look was traded by all four of them. Greg didn't miss how John and the boys bristled at the address as "Miss Watson". Thank you, but she had earned her title as Doctor Watson. Or, given the mood, Captain would do fine. 

“Someone will have to stay with you, of course, and call if anything changes, but I doubt you need or want to remain here any longer.” The nurse gave an insincere smile, the kind Greg hated, and disappeared. As soon as she was gone, a collective sigh of relief was breathed.

“You know you can’t kill people just because they’re annoying,” Sherlock said quietly, probably to either Moriarty or John, who wore the same expression.

“Maybe not, but you can sure as hell think about it!” John huffed, “She’s been a beast the whole time we’ve been here.”

“Well, murder is generally frowned upon, but there are other ways to make someone’s life difficult.” Greg folded his arms and leaned against the wall, “I’m not saying I condone taking someone’s life, because I generally don’t, but I can safely say that is one individual I would not miss.” If the kids smiled at each other, he ignored it. None of his business if Nurse Gorgon befell an “unfortunate accident” of some kind. He would not miss that nurse, not at all.

“Why, Inspector, I’m surprised at you.” Moriarty grinned like a devil, “A man of law?”

“I never said I was a saint.”

“Turn a blind eye?”

“If I have to.” He eyed the threesome, “I’ve had a hellish couple of weeks, and that harpy is not helping!”

“Trouble at home, is it?” John narrowed her eyes. Smart girl knew what was what. How many times had she given an ear, a shoulder, when he poured out his grievances against his wife over and over again at the pub? How many nights had she shuffled him home to Baker Street and let him stay on the couch so he didn’t have to go home to either an empty house or a hostile one? Greg shook his head.

“Who was it this time?”

“She must think me a completely blind fool.”

“Which you are not.”

“Who was it, Greg?” That was Sherlock, getting him back on track. As always.

“Dillard.” He knew exactly who it was his wife had brought home the last few nights he’d been stuck at the office on this latest string of cases. John and Sherlock shared a look and Moriarty looked a little confused. He had no idea.

“What now?”

“Marital problems, to be very brief.”

“Ah.” A bit of understanding. Greg suspected that Moriarty was very good at “disappearing” people for whatever reason there was to be had. Some very mean part of him wanted to make Patricia suffer for the way she’d treated him the last couple of years, but outside of occasionally interfering with one of her relationships, he didn’t do much more than sit by and watch.

Being a lawman, he had learned a couple of useful tricks from his own suspects, he paid far more attention to cause of death than people assumed, and took careful notes when he got a confession. And none of those incidents could ever be traced back to him, he always made sure of that. It always looked like an accident, and he never got called to respond to one of his own hits. No one knew, not even Sherlock’s omniscient older brother, he was that good at using CCTV blind-spots and concealing true evidence. He got the feeling none of them had very clean hands, least of all Moriarty. He had always suspected something about John but never had any evidence to say otherwise. And Sherlock was just…Sherlock. He could care less how a person had died, it was the puzzle that made things exciting. He liked showing off in front of people, proving his genius.

What a strange lot they were. A consulting detective, a consulting criminal mastermind, the unassuming ex-soldier who stood between them and shared their attentions, and then Greg. Unassuming, boring, middle-aged Greg Lestrade. Overworked, slightly overweight, grey before his prime, spurned by his wife and pitied by his coworkers. It was a bad way to be. And yet, John and Sherlock seemed content to be friends when he needed them. Sherlock had kind of always been part of his life, at least for the last…five, six years? And John was a recent, welcome addition. She was smart, funny, and an excellent drinking-partner. She was also a _very_ good crying-shoulder.

 

A harried A&E physician came to examine John about half an hour later, declared her sound enough to return home and to regular duty tomorrow.

“Who is she going home with, then?” He looked up from the chart at the three of them. Greg couldn’t take her, he was working, Sherlock didn’t offer because it wasn’t likely John wanted a thing to do with him right now anyway, and that left Moriarty. Who may or may not have enough heart to give John a place to hunker down until things were right with her system again.

“She’ll stay with me, Doctor Marcus.” Moriarty stepped up.

“Right, then. This  is for you.” The doctor handed over a stack of papers, “If anything on that list comes up, you call us right away.”

“Understood.” Quick, sharp eyes sped-read the data and he handed to over to Sherlock, who did the same before handing it to Greg to read. It wasn’t necessary, but it was useful for all three of them to know. After John was back in her own clothes, and final discharge orders had been processed, they finally left the hospital. John fussed and complained about the wheelchair, but honestly, she couldn’t have walked out of the hospital by herself if she _wanted_ to.

When they got to the doors, John leaned on Moriarty and Sherlock to get out to the street.  A Jaguar was parked behind Greg’s BMW, that car had not been there when he arrived. The man leaning against the bonnet looked like private security, ex-military. Probably one of John’s people, if he had to guess. Or even Moriarty’s. Hearing them coming, the man looked up and raised an eyebrow at the sight of their little foursome. It was clear he knew who Greg was, and he did a headcount behind him, marking Sherlock, John, and Moriarty.

“You’ve got ‘em then, Inspector?”

“I think I can handle it.”

“Brave man you are. Those two behaving themselves, or are they still acting like morons?” This was directed at Sherlock and Moriarty, who both wore the same expression. Sherlock flipped the driver off rather rudely. The driver just smirked and flicked ash from the end of the cigarette between his lips.

“Looks like they’re still acting up. Feel free to exercise a bit of discipline if they get out of hand.”

“I have bigger fish to fry than a couple of consultants going at each other’s throats.” Greg shook his head, “Besides, half-out of her head or not, I’m pretty sure Watson could still own the both of ‘em for me.”

“Yeah, she probably could. You alright, Captain?”

“Thanks, Seb. I’m fine.” Which she clearly wasn’t, but who was going to say anything about it to her face?

“Pretty little liar.”

“That’s Sykes and Ballard’s fault, not mine.”

“Oh, I know.” The look on the driver’s face was scary. Like Moriarty, this man knew ways of killing people that made it look like a complete accident or someone else’s fault. Greg kind of liked this man, whoever he was. Seb? Interesting name. Good man, though, obviously a bodyguard of sorts. Whoever the mentioned pair were, they had very likely already paid for whatever transgression they were guilty of. Greg wondered if he’d be finding a couple of new bodies soon.

“Alright, you three. Come on. And start talking.” He unlocked the car, “You never explained what landed John in here in the first place.”

“Anaphylaxis, Inspector. Someone didn’t listen, thought they knew better.” That was Seb who answered as he tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his heel, “Not sure why that one doesn’t have a bracelet, I know she’s got a tag.”

“Jesus Christ, John!”

“I’m not sorry, but it kind of slipped my mind!” She glared at him, “I’ll get it taken care of, alright? Now leave off.” Greg shook his head and decided there were bigger battles to pick than something like a medical-alert bracelet. John should already have one and didn’t. Whatever the reason, it would be replaced by the end of the week if not before.

As they left the hospital, he looked at John, who rode shotgun while the boys rode in the back together, chatting in quiet voices and plotting who the hell knew what. He’d be damned if the black Jaguar didn’t just glide into traffic right behind him at safe following distance. Keeping an eye on his assets, apparently. Greg didn’t mind, though. Whoever Seb was, he knew his business and wasn’t going to let the Three Stooges get away with a whole lot of anything rowdy.

“John?”

“Ketamine.”

“Oh my god. Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Common enough drug. I don’t need to carry epi on me, thank Christ for that small blessing.”

“Why…um, why don’t you already have a medical-alert bracelet?” He frowned, “I thought it was a mandatory thing?”

“I have a tag I wear on my dog-tags, but the civilian bracelet I used to have got lost somewhere between my last deployment and coming home.”

“And it never occurred to you to get a new one. Because ninety percent of the time, you wear your tags anyway.” He huffed, “Jesus, John. How bad was it?”

“Two doses of epi bad. Usually one will do the trick, but the boys had to give me two this morning.”

“Am I ever going to get a straight story out of this?”

“Probably not anytime soon.” She shrugged. What were the kids up to? Well, first priority right now was getting everyone a decent meal. It was late enough he could run for an early lunch or late breakfast, and he seriously doubted any of his passengers were going to care very much which one. John would eat something, and he suspected Moriarty would, it was Sherlock who was a picky eater. Greg sighed and headed for a neat little place down the end of Victoria that he usually walked to for lunch on the days he was in the office and could get out for a bit. He had lost the Jag somewhere around Whitehall, but that was okay. He could handle the kids by himself.

He parked at The Met and they walked down Victoria together. Conversation was kept neutral, Greg contented himself to watch John and Moriarty together. It was very clear they knew each other, and well. And it was also very clear that Moriarty was worried about John’s health. Whatever the fuck had happened last night and this morning, it had scared the boys properly. Sherlock was behaving himself, for once.

“Sherlock, what happened last night?"

“John was taken from Baker Street around eleven pm last night.” Sherlock looked at him but didn’t make eye-contact, “I did not see it happen, but it didn’t take me long to realise something was quite wrong.”

“What tipped you off?”

“Doctor Sawyer called to ask if I’d seen her. I hadn’t seen her since she walked out of Baker Street, that had been almost fifteen minutes earlier.”

“And when she didn’t show at Sam’s place, that’s when you figured something wasn’t right?” Sam Sawyer lived ten minutes’ walk from Baker Street in a small place over on Cosway Street, John usually stayed over there when things got bad enough at home. 

“I found traces of blood where she had been seized, but it wasn’t hers. I tested it at Bart’s before I got the call to come to Camden.”

“So whoever did take her got the shit kicked out of them before they took her down.”

“Very much so.”

“Good on ‘er. I guess she’s kind of used to being kidnapped no thanks to you.”

“She might be, but it was the first time for both of us she ended up in that much trouble.”

“What kind of trouble? If I went back to that pool right now, would I find any trace any of you had ever been there?”

“Not very likely.”

“Is that Jim Moriarty the same one who’s been leading us along like dogs on leads?”

“Yes.”

“And he had John kidnapped for…what?”

“To make a point. He said I’d gotten too close, but I think it’s safe to say he got far closer to any of us than we were willing to notice.” Sherlock didn’t like it, but the knowledge didn’t seem to bother him much.

“You like him.”

“He’s one of the most interesting, fascinating people I know, and certainly one of the most intelligent who isn’t family.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“I never said you were stupid, I just said you were an idiot.”

“Then what does that make Anderson?”

“A moron.” Three voices said in tandem. Greg snorted.

“That’ll do.” He chuckled.Moriarty passed John something as they talked, looking over his shoulder for a minute. It looked like a business card. John took the card and glanced at it. He didn’t miss the way her eyebrows went up. She took the card and shuffled in her pocket for something, stopping for a minute out of the way of other foot-traffic.

“What are you doing?”

“Doing you a favour. Hang on a minute.” She opened her wallet and looked for something, “Oh, good, I have a few of these left. Did Seb give you his card, Jim?”

“It's with mine.”

“Here.” John handed him a stack of business cards.

“John.” Sherlock added to the pot before John gave him the cards.

“What are these?” He turned the small stack over in his hand. He knew what they were, but not what they were for.

“Business-cards, obviously.” John grinned at him, “In case you find yourself in need of particular services.” Greg tucked the cards into his pocket, deciding to look at them later. He had received four cards, one each from the three people in his car and one from someone he had barely spoken to only once.

-&-

Lunch was quiet, John ate enough to make the boys happy but not enough to clear her plate. That was fine, she couldn’t be expected to stomach a full meal at this point. While John and the boys ate and talked, Greg dug into his pocket for those cards, shuffling them. John’s card wasn’t the one she’d given him a week after their first meeting, it was a different card. This one had the name of a private firm on it, and a phone number, but nothing else.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“If I asked you something, what would you say?”

“I can’t have people killed for being idiots.” Moriarty mused, echoing something Sherlock had said earlier at the hospital, “But if any harm is done, that is very different.”

“So, what would it take to, theoretically, off someone like Anderson?”

“If he got physical. Or if verbal abuse led to physical harm.”

“But what if he lashed out because he was goaded?”

“That still counts.”

“And if it was, say, someone else?” He flipped John’s card through his fingers.

“Such as?”

“A cheating spouse?”

“We gave you those cards for a reason, Greg. If you need anything, you have our numbers. If I’m busy for some reason, out of town with Sherlock on a case, call Jim. Seb’s one of mine, and he likes you.”

“He doesn’t even know me.”

“He knows everything that matters, and by tonight he’ll know the rest.” And Greg knew it was the truth. John knew everything, Sherlock knew everything, Moriarty would know everything, and that knowledge would pass to Seb, who was the last person on the chain who would know anything beyond Patricia’s name and current location. And for some reason, that knowledge did not bother him. He did enough dirty-work finding someone willing to take a hit out on his wife for him was really not such a big problem. What did surprise him was that he knew people personally who just happened to be the exact sort he needed. The subject did not come up again during lunch, or at all that day as he worked unrelated cases with John and Sherlock.

When John got tired, losing her focus, Sherlock called Seb and had them pick her up and take her...wherever she was going to stay until things cooled off in the aftermath of the Camden encounter. Greg waited for Sherlock to come back from walking John out to the car, which was a very nice thing to do, and spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the night working with the suddenly quiet consultant. Last night had scared him, probably more than he would ever admit out loud. It was interesting how fire could expose a person’s true priorities and dearest possession. He wondered what the turning point for Sherlock and John had been, those two hadn’t spoken two civil words to each other in the past two months, and Greg was getting sick of it. John was resigned, and Sherlock was being a complete moron about…something. Christ knew what it had been, but it looked like that misguided feud was behind them for now. And just as well, he had enough on his plate without the Baker Street detectives giving him bigger headaches. Thank God for Jim Moriarty, whatever he had done had knocked some sense into Sherlock. At least things would calm down a bit now, for a while anyway. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah. Greg's hands aren't quite, um, clean. Who would ever suspect a police officer? He's careful, of course, but...well, you'll see!


	7. Return to Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to business as usual for Baker Street, but things are different. John and Sherlock are more like real partners now, working together on cases. What about Greg, though? What's his secret?

 

* * *

Three weeks after the encounter in Camden, John found herself watching Sherlock work his magic in the labs at Saint Bart’s, sipping at a cup of coffee. He was focused on the specimen slides under his microscope, occasionally looking at his watch or scribbling something on the notebook by his hand.

“Got anything, Sherlock?” She asked after a suitable interval.

“Might. Take a look.” He pushed back and she raised an eyebrow. Ever since Camden, Sherlock had been letting her back in on cases, giving her more work to do, asking her opinion on things.

“What?”

“Come take a look. Tell me what you see, if anything seems unusual.” He beckoned her over to his work-station. John shrugged and hopped off the adjacent bench to join her flat-mate. The slide displayed what looked like a soil-sample of some kind. It looked an awful lot like sand, but not the kind of sand they had in London.

“It’s…sand.” She looked up for a minute, “What is this from again?”

“The suspect. Or the man they say is the suspect.”

“Uh, Michael Vincent? He’s one of mine. Fusiliers, City of London Regiment. I’ve met him a couple of times when I hang out with the lads.” John shook her head and went back to the sample, “He just got home from Afghanistan last week.”

“Exactly. His return from overseas does not coincide with the time of death.”

“The victim died two days _before_ Mick got home. The killer left evidence to point at a man who wasn’t even in the _country_ when it happened, thinking to either impersonate or implicate an innocent man.” She thought of the evidence at hand, but there were things that didn’t add up. Vincent had been taken into custody as soon as his name came up, but he kept refusing to admit he was guilty of anything. The problem John and Sherlock were having was that Greg hadn’t taken the case, it was another DI they hadn’t worked with before and was unwilling to take the word of a couple of hack consultants who were more trouble than they were worth. Those had been the DI’s words when Greg explained things to them.

But never one to take anything at face-value, John and Sherlock had involved themselves regardless of the wishes of The Met. And when they were asked, John politely informed them that she and Sherlock had taken Michael Vincent’s case, not the victim’s case. It was their job to prove Vincent’s innocence. How could he have _possibly_ killed anyone if he was in a different country at the time? Then why were his footprints found at the scene?

“John?”

“Mick didn’t kill anyone. This is sand from Kandahar.” She looked around, “Is there more of this sample?”

“I have Captain Vincent’s boots over there.” Sherlock pointed to an evidence tray containing a pair of dusty desert boots. John went to pick one of them up and turned it over after putting on a pair of gloves. She scraped off a bit of sand from the sole and did a quick comparison. It was the same as the current specimen. She did a taste-test, she knew what Kandahar sand tasted like, thank you very much. She spit it out and shook her head.

“Oh, yeah. That’s Kandahar sand alright. Jesus.” She shook her head, “What about the sample from the scene?”

“This one?” Sherlock switched slides and she took another look. “Typical make-up for London soil. Those came from a footprint found next to Vincent’s.”

“Someone else was there.”

“Yes.”

“Is that…hang on, is that clay?” She adjusted the scope’s magnification and frowned, “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me if that’s Hastings clay?” John pushed back and let him take a look. They had worked a case in Hastings as recently as two weeks ago, so they both knew what the clay looked like in a soil-sample.

“Nice work, Watson.” He raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“Do we have comparison-photos for the footprints found?”

“We should.” He went over to the desktop computer and pulled up a series of photographs. Shown were two distinct sets of footprints, one half-overlaid on the other.

“I need to see the body. Does Molly still have it?”

“She should.”

“Come on, we’re going to pay Doctor Hooper a visit.” She hopped to her feet and left the lab with Sherlock right behind her. Finding Molly Hooper wasn’t that hard and they found her on a different autopsy. Asking nicely got them access to Melissa Kingston’s body.

“Do we have her reports?”

“I got back the toxicology reports this morning.” Molly watched them go over the body, “Would you like to see them?”

“Yes, please.” John nodded absently. “This wasn’t murder.”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Look at this.” Sherlock had noticed something and John went to see. He pointed out a tiny defect on the victim’s arm, in the crease of the elbow above the cephalic vein.

“Oh, I’ll be damned. Self-injected?”

“Very likely. I’ll get the evidence-box from Lestrade.”

“If you would, please?”

“Absolutely. I’ll call him now?”

“Thanks.”  John heaved a sigh of relief, “The smug little fucker thought she could frame her fiancé for murder while he was out of the country? Stupid.”

“Precisely. Let me call Lestrade.” Sherlock rummaged for his phone and made a call, John stepped back from the body.

“I’ll find those reports for you, then, Doctor Watson?”

“Please, Molly? That would be very helpful.” John looked at Sherlock, “I knew he was innocent. Never mind he was out of the country when it happened.”  After another minute, Sherlock hung up.

“Thank you, Lestrade. Of course, I won’t be the only one grateful. Yes, of course.” He smiled as he hung up and pocketed his phone. “Lestrade will bring the evidence here himself.”

“Oh, that’s nice of him, he doesn’t have to do that.”

“Nothing on at The Yard just at the moment, he can step away. Besides, it sounded like Anderson and Donovan were fighting again.” Oh, if his eyes didn’t just light up with glee. John rolled her eyes and nodded to Molly as they left the morgue.

“You know the rules, Sherlock.” She scolded, “Physical contact, or verbal abuse leads to physical harm.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Sherlock just smiled at her and she snorted.

“Bye, Molly!”

“Bye, Sherlock! Good luck!”

“Thank you.” Sherlock gave a half- wave, looking at something on his phone. They returned to the lab and waited for Greg to drop off the requested evidence, he arrived with one box of evidence and a couple of new case-files.

“I had to do some looking, but I think it’s all here.” He tapped the box full of evidence from the Kingston case. “What are you looking for?”

“Something to prove Michael Vincent’s innocence.”

“He was out of the country, wasn’t he?”

“But they found footprints and DNA evidence on-scene that linked him back to a murder committed two days before he flew back from Kabul.” John sorted through the envelopes, “Let’s see. They’d been on the rocks for a while, she had a couple of restraining orders out on him. So…”

“But she was the responsible party.” Sherlock piped in, watching her lay out evidence, piecing together the scene in her head. She remembered what she had seen the day she and Sherlock had responded to a call from Greg to help out on a funky-looking murder. John had taken one look, put everything together in her head, spit it out, and laid open a murder/suicide. The suspect, she had daringly declared, wasn’t even in the country, so he couldn’t be the murderer.

“What’s up, John?”

“Melissa used to threaten Michael, used to tell him “I can make it look like it was your fault, and you’ll go to jail for the rest of your miserable fucking life.” And he believed her.”

“And then she did it?”

“She did it. I don’t need Molly’s toxicology reports, I know this was a suicide. She killed herself, framed her fiancé, and now he’s rotting in a jail-cell because no one will listen to an innocent man.”

“But we found DNA traces.”

“ _His_ DNA on her skin?”

“No. Hair-follicle DNA.” Greg shook his head, “Found on her clothes.”

“Similar DNA evidence was removed from a hairbrush and a pillow-case.” John sorted the evidence-cards. “She would have been able to plant the hair on her clothes before killing herself.”

“So, where does the drugging come into play? Wasn’t she strangled?”

“She self-asphyxiated, did it in stages. Choked until she began to black-out, then stopped, administered the drug of choice, probably Fentanyl or Ketamine, and tied herself up so she would choke to death.” Sherlock helped John sort, “If you look at the hand-print bruising on her neck, the size of the print doesn’t match. Too small to be male, and the hand is in the wrong position.”

“So, where’s the syringe?”

“Right here.” John slid the packaged, empty syringe across to Sherlock, “I know toxicology’s been run on this, but we need to know now.”

“I’ll get this running.” Sherlock scooped it up and went straight to work.

“So, Michael Vincent’s innocent?”

“Very. He had more than one pair of desert boots, and they all have sand on them.” John looked up from her sorting, “He would have left a pair behind, and it would be very easy for Melissa to plant the evidence, she probably had help. Her footprints and his were overlaid.”

“I’ll be damned.” Greg ruffled his hair, looking annoyed and tired. “So, who’s Evil Accomplice Number One?”

“Wesley Kingston, Melissa’s brother.” John and Sherlock said it together.

“Right. I’ll…guess I’ll bring ‘im in again.” Greg sighed, “Damn it.”

“You okay, Greg?”

“Nah, I’m fine.” He gave a distracted wave, “You kids pretty much solved this. Keep up the good work, you two.” He kissed John on the cheek, she wrinkled her nose a bit at the smell of whiskey and nicotine.

“Greg.”

“Hmm?”

“Look at me.” She caught him by the chin and tilted his head. “Eyes open, son.” He tried to focus and couldn’t. His eyes were dim and unfocused, there was a familiar glassiness to them. Shaking her head, John quietly and quickly patted him down, coming up with a metal flask stashed in his back pocket. It was nearly empty. She gave it a shake and groaned.

“God damn it, Greg!”

“Sorry.”

“Are you _drunk_?” Sherlock caught the flask when John tossed it his way, twisting off the cap and taking a sniff.

“Uh-uh.”

“Give me your keys, you moron.” John snagged Greg’s keys, “You’ll take a cab back to work and I’ll have Seb give you a ride wherever you’re sleeping these days when you clock out. You need a hot shower, and a few solid hours of sleep uninterrupted.” She grabbed something from the kit she’d taken to carrying everywhere and looked at Sherlock as she held the door for her slightly-inebriated friend, “You got this, Sherlock?”

“Yep. You take care of him, I’ll manage this.”  Sherlock gave a wave and she got Greg back to the street. Along the way, she fired off a text to Seb, who was lurking around on the off chance she or Sherlock needed a reliable ride somewhere.

 

**Text to Seb: (sent 15:45)**

**You around Saint Bart’s, Tiger? – JW**

A minute later, her phone pinged. She looked for new messages. One, from Seb.

 

**Text to John: (sent 15:46)**

**Just pulled around the Ambulance Station. Someone need a ride? – Seb**

**Text to Seb: (sent 15:46)**

**Yeah. Can you get Lestrade back to The Met and then take him home at the end of the day? He’s…not fit to drive just atm. – JW**

**Text to John: (sent 15.47)**

**Sure, Boss. No problem. – Seb**

Nodding, John pocketed her phone and steered Greg out of the hospital.

“Who’s that?”

“Seb’s gonna take you back to The Met and then get you home.” She saw the black Jag pull up to the kerb as they reached Giltspur. “Wherever it is you’re staying right now.”

“Are you mad at me, John?”

“Nope.” She helped him into the car as Seb hopped out and got the door for them. “Thanks, Seb.”

“Pleasure, Boss. Where to, Inspector?”

“Victoria Street office, please.”

“Got it.” Seb nodded and looked at John as he closed the door. “What the hell happened to him? Bloke looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, showered in a few days. Is he drunk?”

“Inebriated. He’s not stupid enough to show up to work stinking drunk. I can’t imagine what Patricia’s done this time.” She sighed, “Seb, we have to help him.”

“He has to ask us for help.”

“Damn idiot.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Let me talk to Sherlock and Jim?”

“Oh, absolutely! I’ll take care of this one for you. Want me to take him to one of the safe-houses after he clocks out?”

“That would be fantastic. Either to mine on St. Luke’s, or Blandford Street.”

“Roger that. I’ll let you know when I’ve got him safe to each place.”

“Thanks, Seb.” John let the Jag pull away and went back into the hospital as soon as they were out of sight. Returning to the lab, she grabbed her coat and wallet and pocketed her own keys.

“Where are _you_ going?” Sherlock looked up from the mass spectrometer, which was doing…something fancy with one of the samples.

“Getting Greg’s car back to The Met before someone realizes it’s missing. I’ll be back in a few.” She patted down her pockets and headed out again.

“Be safe, then.” Sherlock watched her go, not saying more than that. More was unnecessary, and they both knew that. Nodding, she headed back out to collect Greg’s BMW, which he had parked by the ambulance station. John didn’t drive often, and she kind of hated driving small cars like the Beemer, she was far better behind the wheel of a Land Rover or a Foxhound, but she could and did drive when the occasion called for it.

 

She made it back to The Met right behind Greg, parked his car in the underground staff car-park, and beat a sprint up to his office. By a quirk of timing, she was waiting at the door of his office with his keys and a cup of coffee from a nearby Starbucks.

“Oh.” Greg peered at her as she unlocked his office for him, “Where did you come from?”

“Came by to drop off your car. Seb will drive you home tonight, of course, but I figured it was better to have your car in a secure place for the night.” She held out the coffee, “This is yours. Black, two sugars, two spoons of milk, and a double-shot of espresso. Don’t forget to eat something. I’ll text and remind you. Coffee. Keys.”

“You’re efficient, aren’t you?”

“And you need to get your head on straight.” She rolled her eyes, “Now, get back to work. I’ll see you later. Stay out of trouble.”

“Yeah, I’ll try. Thanks, John.” He shrugged and trudged into his office, kicking the door closed behind him. John looked at Seb, who had followed Greg into the building to make sure he got back to his office alright, and shared a significant look with him.

“Come on, you, I’ll get you back to Barts.” Seb indicated for her to take the lead. It was quiet between them as he drove her back to the hospital, she rode shotgun. Words were unnecessary, but they both knew something in Greg’s dynamic had to change. And change fast. If they weren’t careful, he’d drink himself out of a job and into his grave. Or worse, find a destructive outlet for his frustrations. That would be disastrous.

 

Seb dropped her off outside the hospital in the same place he’d picked Greg up an hour ago and promised to be on standby for anything else that came up. John smiled as she leaned through the drivers-side window.

“Does it bother Jim that I’ve pretty much stolen you as my personal driver?”

“Nope. He’d rather have you safe than risk some uncouth cabbie trying to take advantage of you.”

“Which would probably be the stupidest thing they could do. He owns the drivers anyway, so picking on Sherlock or I would be a very bad idea.” She grinned, wondering if Sherlock had figured that out yet. It hadn’t taken John very long to realise that every driver in London, with the Black Cab companies, was on Jim’s payroll. That had certainly made it easier for her to get a cab when Sherlock left her behind in a hurry like he sometimes did.

“Oh, smart thing.”

“Gotta be. See ya, Seb. Thanks for helping out.” She patted the frame of the car and pushed away as Seb took off, waving until he was at the end of Giltspur. With her hands in her pockets, John went back into the hospital and found Sherlock right where she’d left him.

 

Ten minutes later, she shouldered her way into the lab with a cup of coffee in each hand, one for her and one for Sherlock, black two sugars for him, and was just in time for him to make some very pleased sound. She didn’t miss Molly Hooper perched on the edge of the bench nearby, watching his every move.

“Any luck, then, Sherlock?”        

“Ah, there you are!” He looked up from his microscope, “Coffee?”

“Just the way you take yours. Figured it couldn’t hurt any.” She held out one cup to him, “So?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Sherlock took the coffee, smiling. “We were right all along.”

“Well, I knew that. Michael Vincent was thirty-five hundred miles away from London when Melissa Kingston died. His commanders can confirm that, he was on patrol that day.” She shrugged, “I could have told them that. I tried to.” The sound of Molly’s phone ringing interrupted them and they watched her hop off the bench with a shame-faced “Sorry!”

“That’s alright, Molly.”

“Gotta get back to work, anyway! Bye, Sherlock!”

“Bye, Molly.” Sherlock watched her leave, they both did, and as soon as the door thudded shut, he turned on John, eyes sharp.

“You’re much smarter than you look, annoyingly so. Why do you act so normal?” He frowned, almost insulted that he had missed these things about her. “Your intelligence is...disarming. I’ve noticed, when you show off during cases, I’ve wondered.” And she had shown off a little during cases, testing Sherlock to see just how observant he was, offering straight answers to his nebulous ones or making sense of something that had the rest of them scratching their heads after he was out of the picture.

“Because being smart when I was little was a short ticket to getting the sense beat out of me. Da threw me down a set of stairs one night because I dared to talk back. And then there was Harry, she wasn’t too nice to me, either. Called me a suck-up, a tattle-tale. She’s convinced I outed her to Da and Mum, but she kind of did that herself.” John shook her head, “It was easier to play dumb than keep getting myself tossed around.”

“And when you went to university?”

“Medical school? God, I’d hoped it was a clean start.” She tugged on the cuff of her sleeve, “Boy, was I wrong.”

“Who hurt you, John?”

“Mean fucker in law school. Name was Trevor.”

“Victor Trevor?”

“Yeah.” She turned her head, “Did you know him?”

“My God.” If she didn’t know better, she’d think Sherlock looked sick all of a sudden.

“Sherlock?” She put one hand on his shoulder, “You okay?”

“ _You_ were the ex-girlfriend! Oh god, John!”

“It’s okay, Sherlock.” She sat him down by the bench, “Take it easy.”

“I knew he was up to something, I knew it! He told me not to worry about it! He said you weren’t going to be a problem anymore! I thought you were dead!”

“Nope. Army called me up halfway through fourth year. You can bet your arse I jumped on that plane faster than a jackrabbit with its paws on fire.” She took his hands, “Trevor hurt both of us, didn’t he?”

“He knew all the right things to say, didn’t he?”

“Yep.”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you...okay with this?”

“What part of it?”

“Me. Playing a game with your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my...oh, lord.” She couldn’t deny any of it, and rubbed her forehead, “Read me like a fucking open book, why don’t you!”

“I can’t help it! You don’t act like that around anyone else. And neither does he.” Sherlock tilted his head, “I mean it, though, what of the game? Now that you’re involved, the stakes are higher.”

“We can modify the game a bit, if you’d like.”

“How?”

“That’s for me to know, you to find out, and we’ve got work to do. Come on, you. I’m starving.” She pulled on him until he got up and helped him into his ridiculous coat, “Let’s go.”

“Let me call Lestrade.” Sherlock rummaged for his phone and made a call. John checked her watch and saw that it was nearly seven. She had an idea suddenly and pulled her phone out of her pocket.

 

**Near on to starving. Haven’t eaten in a couple of days. Dinner? My treat? – JW**

**Why don’t you and your handsome detective join me at O’Connors? 7 pm. My treat. – Jim M.**

John raised an eyebrow and showed the text to Sherlock, who shrugged. He was on the phone with Greg. She sent back an affirmative and they went to get a taxi from Barts to Waxy O’Connors. John had been there once for something, some kind of party, and remembered it being an awful lot of fun. Six floors, each with a fully-stocked bar and plenty of seating, live music almost every night, and pretty decent food if you came hungry. It was quiet on the drive to the bar, Sherlock was buried in his phone again, and John scrolled through emails, knowing it was time to do a purge of her inbox again.

 

They met Jim just outside the main doors, John didn’t miss how Sherlock came up short at the size of the crowd already gathered. They had walked over from Leicester Square after getting caught up in traffic, so they had a good view of the place before they got anywhere near the doors.

“Already?”

“It’s midweek, can you imagine how many poor sods are dying for a couple of stiff drinks to forget their misery?” She tugged on his coat-sleeve, “Come on, I can see Jim up there.” Having seen them, Jim waved. John broke into a jog, weaving between pedestrians and waiting patrons. Sherlock was right behind her, she imagined it was a bit strange for him to switch places like this and let her lead, keeping up with that long-legged stride of his. John cleared the steps leading to the doors and hugged Jim.

“Hi.”

“Hi, sweetie.” She kissed him on the cheek, “Is Molly here yet?” She remembered Molly had said something earlier, both of them had, actually.

“No, she’ll be joining us later. Something came up at work.”

“Keeps herself busy with the city’s dead, doesn’t she?” John grinned, “Rather good at her job.”

“One of the best. Smart, too.” Jim looked over her shoulder at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t think he’d actually come with you.”

“He can be nice.” She rolled her eyes, “We’ve just closed a case, so he should be in a rather good mood.” She shook stray rain from her collar and her umbrella. Seb must have given it to her when she got to Barts, she didn’t remember having one before then. She folded it with a click and hooked it over one arm as she looked out at the crowd behind them. “Well, gents, shall we?”

“After you.” Jim held one hand towards the doors, which were opened for them by a bouncer, who nodded as Jim passed him.

“Mr Moriarty.”

“Grant.” Jim nodded without making eye-contact.

“Have a good evening, sir.” The bouncer waited until John and Sherlock were inside to let the door close again. The place was already pretty crowded, but it wasn’t ridiculous. John had seen the clubs far more crowded on a Wednesday. They gave their coats to a hostess, who smiled nervously at Jim and watched them leave, merging into the crowds in no time. Jim took them downstairs to The Church Bar, which was busy but not packed. John took Jim’s card to start a tab and ordered drinks and food upstairs. When the tender asked where her party was sitting, she informed him they were down in The Church Bar. She ordered two Taste of Ireland flights, two pints of Guinness, a Bread Basket, and an order of fish and chips. Returning to the table with the pints in hand, she slid one to the middle of their table and kept the other for herself.

“There’s more coming.” She promised, “You can flip for that one or wait.”

“What is it?” Sherlock, who didn’t drink as far as she knew, picked up the pint.

“Guinness.” She raised an eyebrow, “You drink?”

“You’re surprised?”

“You drink.”

“Obviously.” He waggled an eyebrow and took a sip. Some people didn’t like Guinness, didn’t like the taste, but the look on Sherlock’s face told a very different story.

“Sherlock Holmes drinks Guinness.” Jim murmured, swiping John’s pint, “The things you learn about people.”

“Tell me about it. Jesus, getting you to eat is like fighting a bear.” She eyed Sherlock, who just shrugged.

“Hmm.”

They kept conversation neutral until the rest of their order arrived, they each tried the three beers in the Taste of Ireland and surprisingly liked the Caffreys the best. So the next round was three pints of Caffreys.

 

They were on their third round of beer and their second basket of chips when Jim’s phone buzzed. It was a phone-call. From Molly. Who should have been at the club nearly fifteen minutes ago.

“Oh. It’s Molly!” Jim giggled, waving his phone and drawling the second syllable of the absent pathologist’s  name.

“Well, answer it, for God’s sake! Where is she?” Sherlock swallowed half of that last question in a gulp of his current pint.

“Ten quid says she ditched and is shagging some other bloke,” John muttered, only halfway joking. The boys choked and Jim kicked her under the table as he cleared his throat to answer the phone.

“Jesus, John!”

“I am _not_ sorry.” She sniffed, setting a tenner on the table. Sherlock rolled his eyes and dropped a bill for the hell of nothing better to do.

“Hello, Molly.” Jim sounded surprisingly sober as he multi-tasked, answering the phone-call and putting his own ten on the table for the stupid bet. “We’re missing you, lovely.” There was a brief conversation, and it was only because John and Sherlock made their living on observation of social cues, body language, and facial expressions that they noticed Jim tensing up. A tightening of his jaw, a brief wrinkle between his eyebrows, a hardening of his eyes.

“Oh? Well, that’s a bit of a shame, dearie. We’ll miss you, then.” He took a deceptively calm sip of his beer, “Do be safe tonight. Ta. Yes, I will. Of course. Good night.” As he hung up and pocketed his phone after looking at it for a minute, he shrugged.

“Should’ve expected that.”

“What’s that?”

“She finished up her last case and is off for dinner with “a friend”. Apparently, she promised this someone dinner this week. Bit of a forgetter sometimes.”

“Oh, _please_. You don’t just “forget” dinner with someone.” John snorted, “You might have gotten into it for less-than-noble intentions, but you liked her.”

“She’s a bit flighty for my tastes.” Jim shrugged, “It’s little matter to me, she served her purposes.”

 “Wonder who she was going after like that she’d drop a date with you so willingly.” John frowned, “That’s kind of a shite thing to do, isn’t it?”

“Probably my idiot brother.” Sherlock muttered, “She’s been after him for years.”  This was news to John, and to Jim, who shared a startled look.

“Mycroft?”

“Yep.”

“What the fuck did she see in _him_?”

“Not a bleeding clue.”

“Ugh, well, she’s welcome to him.” John made a face, “Though, I always saw Lestrade as more your brother’s type.”

“He would have, but Lestrade is _married_.” Sherlock’s expression was grim, “Poor dear.”

“What’s this now?” Jim turned his head, “What’s with Greg Lestrade?”

“His wife.” John grimaced, “Same class of despicable as Trevor.”

“Ah. Yes, the unscrupulous Patricia Lestrade.” He made a face as he spoke that name. John and Sherlock had filled him on what they were privy to regarding the marital satisfaction of the Lestrades after Camden, he had asked after the subject came up in conversation. Greg worked himself nearly to death trying to stay out of Patricia’s way, and Patricia pissed on her husband’s choice of career-path while entertaining what she thought was a discrete string of extra-marital affairs with different men. He wasn’t very happy in his marriage, which was crumbling beneath him despite his best efforts.

“So, wait. Let me get this right.” Jim set down an empty pint-glass, “Patricia Lestrade _married_ a Detective Sergeant with The Metropolitan Police Service because she had a thing for a handsome bloke in uniform.”

“Yep.”

“But six months after they were married, she started complaining about his _hours_?”

“Yep.”

“Knowing fucking well that his job was dangerous. At this time, he was in Narcotics?”

“Undercover, even worse.”

“Jesus. And she thought, for some reason, that marriage would just magically make him drop everything for her?”

“Apparently.”

“Has it escalated?”

“A bit.” Sherlock frowned, “I owe Lestrade my life, never mind the job with The Met, I keep an eye on him in turn.”

“What’s happened, Sherlock?”

“She’s been bringing her affairs home.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No! She wouldn’t dare!”

“She has very much dared. Five times, three of them with the same man and twice with different men.”

“And Lestrade hasn’t gotten a divorce yet… _why_?”

“He’s too tired to think about it. He knows it happens, he just…he doesn’t care anymore.”

“Do they have children?”

“No.”

“Assets?”

“She would take him for everything he’s worth if he tried to file.” John recalled a recent conversation she’d had with Greg on just this very same subject. Patricia was an attorney, she knew the rules and how to get her way. If Greg filed for divorce on the grounds of infidelity, she would find some way to turn it on him and, with any turn of ill luck, she’d have his badge and every cent to his name. Jim looked thoughtfully grim, as did Sherlock. She looked from one to the other and something click.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Oh!”

“What’s that, Jo?”

“Boys, I think I just had a perfectly horrendous idea!”

“What’s that then, love?” Jim munched on a chip, offering one to Sherlock, who accepted despite his habit of never eating.

“We haven’t formally _ended_ the game.”

“I know that look. What’s in your head?” Jim raised an eyebrow. John turned things over in her head and narrowed her eyes.

“Let me talk to Lestrade first. Get a feel for things. I think I just found the next victim.” She finished her pint and set the glass aside. The boys looked at each other and after a momentary expression of horror, they started to smile.

“Oh, she’s clever. This one’s all yours, dearie.” Jim grinned, “How should we do it?”

“Let me get a feel for the stability, and we’ll make our next move then.”

“When, though?”

“Soon. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“That quickly?”

“He was in pretty bad shape when he stopped by Barts earlier today.” John turned her glass in neat quarter-turns on the coaster.

“Sounds like we have a plan, then.” Sherlock studied his glass and took a sip, “We’ll wait for your word and pick out our next victim.” “Our next victim”, like they were three criminals plotting a ransom kidnapping. Not two rogue street-smart detectives and a criminal mastermind planning the next move in a potentially deadly game of wits they were suddenly playing _together_. That would be fun when someone figured out their game. If anyone ever did. And really, it was only a matter of time before someone intimately involved with the detectives working the cases formally got involved somehow. And who better than Greg Lestrade’s lying bitch of a wife who thought her husband was just a dumb beat-cop with no good sense and the wrong priorities? This might actually be fun.

 

* * *

 


	8. The Mask Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night on the town takes a turn. A careful mask begins to crack.

* * *

Another two weeks passed before John could get Greg alone for more than a few minutes, and the first thing she did was haul him out of The Yard and into the waiting car. Seb had offered to pick them up in a cab, having been made aware of the change of dynamic back at the start when John was released from the hospital after Camden. He thought they were all crazy, but he knew better than the challenge Jim and he knew what John was capable of. So he kept his mouth shut. As she pushed Greg into the car, he looked over his shoulder.

“Long night, folks?”

“That’s a word for it. Try a long _week_.” Greg coughed. “Where the fuck are we even going?”

“O’Connors on Rupert Street, please.” John knew exactly where they were going, and so did Seb.

“You got it.” Seb flashed a quick, friendly smile, and got them going the right direction. It took about fifteen minutes with Friday night traffic, but he pulled up right in front of the multi-level pub and came around to get the door.

“That’s service,” Greg muttered, yawning as he stretched a kink out of his back while John passed something to Seb.

“Thanks, mate.”

“Pleased to assist, Captain. Have a good evening, Inspector.” Seb looked worriedly at Greg, who shrugged and turned to regard the building. With his attention elsewhere, Seb looked at John.

“Is he okay?”

“It’s been a rough week.”

“Poor bloke. Well, you know what to do.” Seb patted her on the shoulder, took a quick kiss on the cheek, and disappeared into the cab. He was gone in no time, and John took Greg in hand, guiding him into the busy pub. The bouncers, recognizing her from the other night, waved her through.

“Have a good evening, Captain Watson. Welcome back.”

“Thanks, lads. Keep a weather eye. Let me know if any trouble comes up.”

“Yes’m.” It wasn’t that they were incapable of doing their jobs, but if anyone could put down a bar-brawl quickly and efficiently, it was John. And she wasn’t afraid to turn unruly patrons out onto the street on their drunk arses if she had to.

“You know the bouncers?” Greg looked at her sideways, “You’ve been here before.”

“One better than knowing the bouncers. I know the owner.” She took her coat off and handed it to the hostess, “Thank you, Jorda.”

“Captain. Good to have you again.”

“Ta. JM around?”

“Might be, ma’am. Haven’t seen ‘im. Doesn’t mean he’s not here.” The hostess smiled nervously. That meant Jim was in the house tonight. Good. He wouldn’t make himself known unless he felt like it, but as they passed through The Street Bar, John looked up to the Mezzanine Bar. Ah, there he was. She smiled and waved as they passed under the overhang.

“How did we get in here?”

“I told you, I know the owner.” She heard music from below and smiled. “Oh, is it Sunday?”

“Think it is. Lost track of the days a long time ago. That bomber had me on my toes. Then the idiot went all quiet.”

“Don’t get too cosy, he’s still out there.”

“Great.” Greg groaned, “Can’t believe this, but I kind of miss the little bastard.”

“You wouldn’t be the only one.” John guided Greg down to The Church Bar, “Don’t wander too far beyond the loos, you’ll get a bit lost. This place can be a maze when you’re drunk.”

“How big _is_ this place?”

“Six floors, just that many bars, and pretty damn good food. Come on.”

“So, _how_ do you know the owner? What kind of favour did you or Sherlock do for them?” Greg collapsed into the seat she pushed him into that overlooked the main bar-floor and the lectern stage where a traditional band was warming up.

“Actually, it’s an old childhood friend of mine. Lost touch for a long while, but we reconnected recently and he pretty much told me this place was open to me whenever I needed a pick-me-up or anyone I was with needed a new place to drink. You ever been here before?”

“Don’t think so. Nice place, though, kind of...eclectic.” Greg huffed.

“Sit, I’ll be right back.” She patted him on the shoulder and went down to the bar to get their drinks. The Church Bar wasn’t as crowded as other rooms, but she still had a bit of a wait to get to the barkeep.

“Hey, Rodney!”

“Hey, Cap! That’s three times in a row you’ve been in here just this week, y’know that?”

“Kind of happens when I’m dating your boss, Rodney.” She leaned against the bartop, “Can I get a couple pints of Guinness, a Bread Basket, and an order of fish and chips, please and thanks?”

“Absolutely, Captain! How’s it been?”

“Quiet but busy. No complaints.” She smiled and waited for the pints, “How’s your wife doing?”

“The baby’s taking its sweet time and she’s sick of waiting.”

“How far along is she?”

“Damn near exactly forty-two weeks.”

“Ugh. Poor dear. Well, that baby’s healthy and she’ll come when she’s good and ready.” John chuckled, “Just might not be when you and Josephine are ready.”

“Yeah, I bet you’re right, Captain.” Rodney just smiled ruefully and handed over two pint-glasses, “I’ll get the rest of your order started.”

“Thanks, Rodney. Have a good night!” she waved and headed back to their table. Greg had dozed off and gave a start when she set down the glasses. John frowned.

“Jesus, Greg. Jump like I shot you.”

“Sorry. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

“You alright, mate?” she pushed one pint across to him, “You probably need more than one of those.”

“Yeah, yeah. No, it’s…sorry. I’ve been at a hostel the last couple of nights.”

“What?” John raised an eyebrow.

“Pat kicked me out. Changed the locks on me and everything.”

“Jesus, Greg! Why didn’t you say something?!”

“It got so crazy I kind of forgot.”

“You _forgot_ to tell me that your own fucking wife kicked you out of the house?” She took a suspicious sip of her Guinness.

“Sorry?”

“Oh, don’t be sorry.” John shook her head, “Pat’s the one who should be sorry. Anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah, doubt it,” Greg muttered, hunching his shoulders. John raised an eyebrow.

“Try me.”

“Yeah, I _really_ doubt you know anyone who’d take a hit?”

“A…what?”

“You heard me!”

“Hang on, Greg, you want someone to take your wife out? Sniper-style?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s kind of violent, isn’t it? Are things really that bad?”

“Yeah. They kind of are.” He wouldn’t look at her and she sighed.

“Alright. Who was it this time?”

“Dillard.”

“Again?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus Christ.” John put her head down. She knew _all_ about Richard Dillard, whom John, Sherlock, and Greg had nicknamed Ricky Dicky Dongle one night after a few too many drinks at Baker Street. “Tell me she’s not wearing that bastard’s ring and I may or may not believe you.”

“It sure as fuck ain’t _my_ ring she’s wearing these days.”

“You’re not even divorced yet! Greg!” John rubbed her forehead. That did it, that right there was every reason she needed to pull Patricia Lestrade as their next victim. In the weeks since Camden, and changing the way The Game was played, John and Sherlock had quietly plotted with Jim to resurrect the chain of bomb-vest hostages. They just had to be very careful about their next victim, it had to be a very particular target.

“Two months, Jo.”

“Oh my god. We need more beer.” She finished her pint in a few gulps and put her glass down. A server came up with their food and asked if they needed anything.

“Yeah, can we get a few more pints, please?”

“Yeah, sure thing!” She collected the empty glasses. “What are you drinking?”

“Guinness. Thanks.”

“No problem, I’ll be right back with those!” With a cheerful smile, the server was gone again. John picked at the food, turning over different plans in her head.

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you still have those cards I gave you in April?”

“Somewhere, I think I do.”

“Okay. If you need us, you have to talk to us, we’re not real good at mind-reading.”

“Sorry. It’s just been…” He made a vague gesture with one hand, “I don’t want to get anyone involved in my mess.”

“Bullshit, and you know it.” John tapped her fingers on the tabletop.  

“I take you know a good assassin or two, Doctor Watson?”

“I might. We gave you the resources you need, Greg, you just have to _use_ them.” She needed Jim. And bad. She was about to text him, knowing damn well he was aware of her being in the bar tonight, when he suddenly appeared on a walk-through. Greg spotted him first, of course.

“Uh, is that Jim?”

“Hmm?”

“That.” He pointed in the direction of his focus, “That’s Moriarty.”

“Oh.” John looked over and spotted Jim, elegantly groomed and dressed as always. He had this way of walking when he was going somewhere not in any hurry but just…moving through, that she found so very sexy. John smiled when he spotted them and diverted.

“Yep. Figured he might be in tonight.” She took a sip of water and waited for Jim to get to their table. He made a short detour to the bar and came up with three pints of Guinness.

“You should know better than to think you can walk into my establishment and just go about your business, Captain Watson.”

“Who said I did any such thing, Mr Moriarty?” She raised an eyebrow in challenge. He chuckled and set down his load.

“ _I_ did! Don’t do it again.” Jim turned and gave Greg a friendly smile, “It’s a pleasure to have you here, Inspector.”

“Thanks, yeah.” Greg looked around the crowded bar-area, “So, this is your place, then?”

“Yes, it is. Don’t let the layout throw you off, Inspector.”

“Yeah, I’ll try not to.” Greg shook his head, “Christ. Like the place, though.”

“Good. So do I.” Jim just pushed John over and sat down next to her. She rolled her eyes and wondered how long her peace would last.

 

As it turned out, not very long. Her phone rang as she worked on her third pint. The only person who called her anymore was Sherlock, who usually texted anyway.

“Oh, look at that.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yep.”

“Limey bastard finally missed you?” Greg muttered. John swiped into the call, ignoring Greg for a minute.

“Watson.”

_“Sorry to disturb your night off. I know you’re with Lestrade, but this is important.”_

“Where are you?”

 _“Saint Katharine Docks Marina. Got a rather interesting one I think you might enjoy.”_ She could hear the familiar background noises of an active crime scene. _“Can I pull you away?”_

“Damn. Who’s on lead?”

_“Not Lestrade’s team tonight, obviously. It’s not Dimmock, either.”_

“Fine, that means I don’t have to deal with Anderson.”

 _“No we bloody fucking do not!”_ And didn’t he just sound so thrilled? John snickered and downed what remained of her beer.

“Give me twenty minutes. Twenty-five tops. I’ll meet you there.” She hung up with Sherlock and grabbed a couple of chips.

“So?”

“Duty calls. Who else was on tonight?” She looked at Greg, “You’re obviously not.”

“Dimmock and Gregson were both on.”

“Must be Gregson then. Haven’t worked with her team yet.” John shrugged, “Well, first time for everything. Hope she doesn’t mind us.”

“What’s on?”

“Got something down at Saint Katharine Docks Marina.”

“Have fun.” Greg waved a dismal hand, “Just glad it ain’t my paperwork. Make sure Sherlock behaves himself, please?”

“He’s already down there, I make no promises.” She finished her pint and the water she had ordered to counter the alcohol, “I’ll do what I can to make sure he didn’t make any poor constables cry this time.”

“This time?” Jim’s eyebrows went up.

“You should come by a scene sometime, watch him work. It’s really quite something.” John grinned as she bundled up for the trip down to Wapping.

“If I thought I could leave our dear Inspector alone to join you.” Jim just smiled in that soft way of his. John chuckled.

“I can look after myself, ta.” Greg groused, “I don’t need babysitting.”

“I beg to differ.” Jim sipped his beer and rolled his eyes, “Go save London, I’ll make sure Lestrade gets home safe.”

“Thanks, love.” John leaned down and kissed Jim on the cheek. “I’ll call when I know something.”

“Be safe!” The boys called in tandem. John had a moment’s hesitation to leave Greg alone with Jim, but really, there was no one better qualified to look after her beleaguered friend tonight. Shrugging, she left Waxy O’Connor’s by herself.

“Need a lift, Captain?” Seb called from the other side of the bustling footpath when she appeared. John grinned and headed for the waiting car.

“Saint Katharine Docks Marina, pretty please. “

“You got it, Boss-lady.” Seb pulled out to join the flow of traffic. “How’s your friend doing?”

“Not good at all. I need to let Jim know we can move ahead with the next hostage.” 

“That quick?”

“I promised.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead, “Fucking Christ, did you know he said something about hiring a hit on his own wife?”

“For what?”

“She’s engaged to her boy toy _while_ she’s still married to Greg. Has been for…two months now?” 

“Did he really ask?” Seb raised an eyebrow at that.

“Yes, he did. I almost offered to take the job, Seb. But he has no idea about that part of my history, I don't think.” John folded her arms across her chest. “I wouldn’t even charge for it, either. That job, like taking on Philip Anderson if he ever touches Sherlock, would be pro bono.”

“She’s our next victim.” It wasn't a question. Seb knew how John’s mind worked, how Jim’s mind worked, what to say and do in this instance.

“Yep. And I am going to _love_ watching her beg her husband for mercy, for help.”

“You think he will?”

“Nope. Not a snowball’s chance in Hell.”

“I’ll get the orders out.” Seb nodded What’s our timeline?”

“Not sure at the moment, put the lads on standby.” She felt the car slow in traffic, “Thanks for the lift, Seb. Go back to O’Connor’s once you drop me off, and hang out. Jim’s probably going to want you to take Lestrade home for the night.”

“Not _his_ place?”

“Nah. Probably one of the safe-houses.”

“Roger that. Want me to stop by his current place and grab his stuff?”

“Yeah. Until things are taken care of, I don’t want him slumming in a bedsit or hostel.”

“You got it, Boss-lady.”

“I’ll get you the address of his hostel in a bit.”

“No rush.” Seb looked at her in the rear-view. She smiled, glad to have someone as gifted and observant as Seb on her six. She had spent so long watching Seb's six, now he was happy to return a favour or two.

* * *

 


	9. The Man You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mask comes off. What are John and Sherlock going to do with the new knowledge? Can they keep a dangerous secret for Greg?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, we learn a bit about everyone's favourite Silver Fox DI. This part of Greg's history and personality was very heavily inspired by the gifted Azmodel's "Unholy Yarder", which is part of an amazing series called "Unholy Players". Go give them some love, too! Please? This idea wasn't mine at all, I borrowed.

* * *

When they got to St Katharine Docks Marina, Seb dropped John off right outside the first tape-line. She saw Sherlock waiting for them, phone to his ear. As soon as he saw the car, his eyes lit up. John got out and stood by the car.

“Sherlock!”

“What?” He lowered his phone for a minute, turning away from the conversation he was having with...someone. About what, John could only imagine.

“Where’s Lestrade staying these days when he’s not working?”

“The Phoenix. Why?”

“Got kicked out of his own fucking house last week. He needs a safe place to stay. Baker Street?”

“Oh, absolutely! He can’t stay in a hostel!” Sherlock looked appalled, “Yeah, no, he’ll stay with us!”

“Perfect.” She turned and tapped on the window, “Seb?”

“Yes’m?”

“The Phoenix. If anyone asks, just say you’re a friend and you need to collect his things. Or lie your way in and pretend you lost your key or something.”

“You got it.”

“I’ve got work to do, I’ll be in touch about Mrs Lestrade.”

“I’ve got my phone on me, love.” Seb saluted and pulled away again. John sighed and ruffled her hair as she ducked under the line held for her by Sherlock, who was _still_ on the phone.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Mycroft. He won’t shut up.”

“Jesus. Give me the phone.” She held out one hand for Sherlock’s phone, quickly syncing it to a Bluetooth headset so she could multi-task. Just as it synched up, she heard Mycroft yell for Sherlock.

_“Are you even listening to me, Sherlock?”_

“No need to scream, Mycroft. We can hear you.” John winced, “What’s new?”

_“Oh. D-Doctor Watson.”_

“Evening, Mycroft.” She smirked and circled the body when they got to the primary scene, “It had better be important, I’ve got a body cooling in a house-boat that costs more than I ever make in a month.” Which wasn’t quite true, but wasn’t exactly a lie either.

_“Of course, Captain_.” Mycroft conceded and she spent the next five minutes disseminating data and sharing her observations with Sherlock while simultaneously holding a conversation with Mycroft.

After hanging up on Mycroft, who was _supposed_ to be on a date with Molly Hooper if John’s intel was any good, John looked at Sherlock.

“Do we have a name for our mister here?”

“Yes, we do.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder, “Robertson!”

“Sir?” A young constable who looked almost too young to have a badge or carry a gun hurried over.

“Can you give Captain Watson the victim’s billfold, please?”

“Yes, sir.” The constable handed over a clear evidence baggie with a rather nice leather billfold inside. Inside the wallet, which John went through, were a couple hundred quid in varying denominations, an Oyster card, several bank-cards, a library card, and a driver license. She looked at the picture on the license and then at the victim.

“Richard…Dillard?” John frowned, “Oh. Is _this_ …”

“Patricia Lestrade’s paramour.” Sherlock nodded, “Clean job, thought it was one of yours.”

“Nope!” She shook her head, “Not me. Or anyone I know.” She turned the victim over to look for damage to the front.

“How did he die?”

“I’d say poisoning, going by the looks.” One of the forensics team piped up from behind them.

“Ashen-grey. Eyes are bloodshot and dilated. Blue around the lips, nailbeds dusky and discoloured.” She rattled off previous observations, “But…there’s a softness to his throat. Damage to the trachea and windpipe. Slight bruising around the throat, under the collar. No definite marks. No coercion marks.” She shook her head, “This man wasn’t poisoned, he was strangled.”

“Nice work, Watson.” Sherlock murmured. “Anything else?”

“He was drugged before he was strangled, his killer didn’t want him to struggle.” She pointed out a pin-prick injury in a very specific place, the side of Dillard’s neck. “But whoever it was, he knew them.”

“Crime of passion?”

“Not from Patricia Lestrade.”

“A slighted ex, maybe?” Sherlock rocked on his heels.

“Possibly?” John sat back on her heels, rubbing her nose on her sleeve. “See who Dongle’s other girlfriends were. You know a man like this entertained a string of women.” Sherlock’s badly-disguised snicker got some attention, but he passed it off as a coughing fit.

Shrugging, John got to her feet and stripped off the gloves, bundling them into a pocket, “Tell Gregson to get the body down to Barts. Hooper will take the case in the morning. I’d run for toxicology on any drugs. Anything and everything, just to be safe.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The Forensics team nodded, probably glad they didn’t have to think that hard and figure out what was what. John paced the scene as they carted the body away, turning pieces of evidence over in her head. Suddenly, she realized something.

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Dillard wasn’t killed by an ex-girlfriend!” She gasped, “Sherlock!”

“What?”

“We need to go. Right now.” She grabbed him by the sleeve, “Reports first, then you and I need to talk.”

“About _what_?”

“I think we have a problem!” She hissed. They offered to meet Gregson back at the yard, or they could give their reports now, but the sooner the better. Gregson, sensing they were in a bit of a hurry, handed over the packets and pencils. They sat in the back of Gregson’s car to fill out the reports.

-&-

Half an hour later, they were walking into Tower Hill Tube Station to catch the next train going home. It was faster and cheaper than bothering with a taxi, and Seb was ferrying Jim and Greg around London by now, so they couldn’t depend on him to get them home to Baker Street. At this time of night, the trains were fairly empty. John grabbed a seat in an almost-abandoned car and leaned her head back.

“John?” Sherlock sat next to her, leaving a lot unspoken but certainly understood.

“Yeah.” She rubbed her eyes, “I missed the signs, Sherlock. Clues all over the place, little things I noticed and dismissed.”

“It’s always something.” He murmured, taking her hand and uncurling her fingers from a clenched fist, “Don’t do that.”

“You know we can’t say _anything_. It would ruin him.”

“Far more efficiently than his ex-wife.” Sherlock murmured. A few stops later, the train-car emptied of it’s last few passengers and John and Sherlock were completely alone. John let out a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding and groaned.

“Jesus Fucking Christ. How long has he been doing it?”

“Months? Years? I’d say years.” Sherlock steepled his fingers, eyes closed in thought, “Who would ever suspect a policeman?”

“I don’t think we’ve worked one of his killings before. Have we?”

“He doesn’t get called on his own jobs, and he’s very clever concealing the real evidence. He’ll get a Missing Persons notice, but the actual call usually goes to someone else.”

“But we don’t just work for him.”

“Now we don’t.” Sherlock frowned, “This is new for him. This is very personal.”

“It’s always _been_ personal.” John chewed on her thumbnail, “This infidelity is not new, and I get the feeling his method of keeping his wife’s illicit affairs so short includes finding someone close to the current beau and offing them somehow. Something suitably subtle and clean. Gang-related killings, muggings gone wrong, a deadly slip on ice in the winter. The likes.”

“What is normal?” Sherlock wondered. “You are a genius, nearly my equal if not my equal intellectually. You are a sniper, you kill without question for cause, will happily do certain jobs for no compensation. Then there is your boyfriend. Clever criminal mastermind with a heart of gold and the intelligence to rule the world. He prefers the criminal classes. But he has morals. Standards. He chooses those in his innermost circle very, _very_ carefully.”

“And then there’s Greg Lestrade. Bleeding Gregory Etienne Lestrade!” John put her head in her hands, “Sherlock, we’re friends with a serial killer masquerading as a lawman.”

“Who apparently does both things so flawlessly he hasn’t yet been caught.”

“And we’re not going to out him.” She sighed, “Oh my god.”

“Do you think we should tell him?”

“Tell him what, exactly?”

“That we know.”

“Oh.” She sighed, “I don’t know. How would you even approach the subject?”

“Carefully, I suppose.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” John rubbed her forehead, “God, I’m tired. Maybe after we play with Patricia Lestrade, we can pull the plug on The Great Game.”

“I don’t see why not. Where did you leave Lestrade, if I may ask?”

“O’Connor’s. I left him with Jim, he’ll be…safe.”

“And where did you tell Seb to bring him?”

“Baker Street, I want to keep an eye on him.”

“Good. Smart. Perfect.” Sherlock nodded. They didn’t speak of it again, but John reorganized a few things in her mental lockers. What she thought she knew with what she actually knew, new knowledge joining existing knowledge.

-&-

Thirty-two minutes later, John was kicking the door of 221B Baker Street shut and locking it as she shrugged out of her coat.

“John! Door!” Mrs Hudson yelled from 221A.

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson!” John called back, “Been a long night!”

“Well, just don’t break my doors, hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She headed up the stairs with Sherlock right behind, “Good night, Mrs Hudson!”

“Good night, dears!” Their landlady watched them go upstairs, eyes narrow. “And what in the world is wrong with Greg?”

“Oh, he’s home?”

“Looked a rightful fright when I let him in just a bit ago.”

“He just needs a place to stay for a while until things are smoothed over with his ex-wife, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, well, that’s fine! He deserves better than that dreadful woman.”

“You would not be the only one who thinks so, Mrs Hudson.” John looked up the stairs.

“Good night, you two.”

“Good night, Mrs Hudson.” They said together. Going into 221B, John was relieved to find Greg laying on the couch, coat, jacket, tie, and shoes scattered wherever they’d fallen. Jim watched from John’s chair, keeping an eye on the gifted inspector who kept them in work. John sighed and toed off her own shoes, hanging her coat by the door and collecting Greg’s mack. After hanging their coats, she arranged their shoes in place and hung Greg’s jacket over the back of the “Client’s Chair”.

While Sherlock ducked into the back bedroom, John went to wake up Greg. She gave him two paracetamol and a glass of water before sending him to the bathroom to take care of business and change into pyjamas. Once the door had closed, she leaned against the mantle and put her head down.

“You solved the case. Why are you upset?” Jim, observant bastard, knew she wasn’t happy. She shook her head.

“We missed something, Jim.”

“We did?”

“We have to mislead The Met now, send them on a goose-chase. We need to give them a red herring.”

“Why?”

“Because Sherlock and I just picked up the murder of Richard Dillard.”

“Oh. Ooh.” Jim’s eyes widened and he looked towards the back bedroom, “I see your problem.”

“I don’t even know how I came to that conclusion in the first place! But I did!”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Just Sherlock.”

“Leave the rest to me.” Jim held out one hand to her, “I have just the man for the job.”

“Great. Perfect. Do whatever you have to and keep Greg safe.” She went over to her chair, “And we are most definitely taking Patricia Lestrade as our next hostage.”

“Good. I’ll send the orders in the morning. Arrange for a little “accident”.”

“Perfect. Greg will call the shots this time.”

“And I’m willing to let him. He is a good man, but even the best men have limits.”

“And he’s reached his.” She leaned her cheek against his hair, “Stay with me tonight?”

“Here?”

“Please? I know you don’t like staying in Baker Street, but…please?”

“Of course.” He reached up and took her hand, “We will make our plans tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Jim. You’re wonderful.” She turned and kissed his hair, taking a deep breath of his scent. “Come to bed?”

“Of course I will.” He got up and smoothed a few wrinkles out of his suit.

“Good night, Sherlock! Good night, Greg!” She called towards the back bedroom, “See you in the morning!”

“Good night, John!” Greg called back, “Thanks for everything!”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled sadly and went upstairs. After brushing her teeth, she climbed into bed and slept with Jim at her back. Tomorrow would be…interesting.

* * *

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Masquerade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13611609) by [ConsultingOtter (FourCornersHolmes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/ConsultingOtter)




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